


Heal My Heart

by DAfan7711



Series: Beyond Circle, Beyond Order [6]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Assassination Plot(s), F/M, Happy Ending, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:50:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 40,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/pseuds/DAfan7711
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Think Curly can resist the gentle arms of a Healer? Don’t bet on it.” – Varric Tethras</p>
<p>Sixteen years after the defeat of Corypheus, Cullen receives a personal summons from King Alistair. Cullen has long overcome his secret love for Queen Margaret, formerly the Inquisitor, and can’t think of any reason why the King and Queen would want to see him. The visit goes well, until an ambush of assassins aiming for Alistair in the Denerim marketplace hits Cullen instead, nearly killing him. Luckily for the ex-Templar, the local Healer witnesses the attack and immediately springs into action. Perhaps she can heal more than his body. And perhaps he can help her with some healing of her own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A summons from King Alistair

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I’m not a medical professional and everything in this story is fiction.
> 
> Cullen's short, angsty Skyhold one-shot, [Thoughts of self, thoughts of her](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5531420), can be read as a prologue, or you can jump straight into his current story:

_Maker, preserve me._

Cullen rode his white stallion through the open portcullis of Denerim’s fortress. The guards on duty recognized him from earlier visits and waved him through.

He had no idea why King Alistair had summoned him to come alone. Usually Lady Pentaghast or Lady Montilyet accompanied him so at least two of the Inquisition’s three remaining leaders were present for any major decision.

The only thing that would make him more uncomfortable would be a summons from Divine Victoria. Though he and Leliana had shared a good working relationship at Skyhold, he was relieved that the woman who now sat on the Sunburst Throne was more likely to visit with Josephine, or even Cassandra, than with him. She had guided the Chantry back into the ways of charity, but he never forgot that she was a veteran of the Grand Game.

Cullen dismounted and handed his reins to a stable hand. “Thank you.”

“Commander,” she bowed and led his horse away for a cool down.

His heart pounded as he walked up the stone stairs of the keep. Had there always been this many stairs?

The King’s Steward met him at the top. “Welcome, Commander. His Majesty and Her Majesty await you in the throne room.” Hill led the way down the hall.

As they neared the archway into the throne room, Princess Sera sauntered out and past with a wink, “Good afternoon, Commander.”

A new, unwelcome possibility jumped to mind. His throat clogged with a nervousness he couldn’t swallow. Perhaps the King and Queen thought to pair their young daughter with a much older, malleable man who wasn’t interested in usurping her throne. One whose only purposes would be providing her with heirs and protecting her from other suitors. It wouldn’t require noble blood, and his position as troop Commander for the Inquisition was enough to turn noble heads.

He and Cassandra now ran the Inquisition as a smaller outreach organization to help the poor and displaced, but no one had forgotten the power Cullen wielded at the height of the Inquisition, before Margie defeated Corypheus and resigned her post as Inquisitor.

Maker, marrying Margie’s daughter—marrying anyone that young—he wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t.

“Cullen.” He hadn’t noticed Queen Margaret’s approach. She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “You look white as a sheet. You all right?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Perhaps I’m tired from the journey.”

She leaned back and raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps apprehensive about your visit.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Rutherford,” King Alistair joined them and held out his hand to shake Cullen’s. “Thank you for accepting our invitation.”

“Your Majesty.” It felt odd to shake the King’s hand, as strong and sword-calloused as his own, instead of bowing from a respectful distance, but Alistair Theirin had never been big on protocol. Except when someone threatened his family or kingdom. He had no qualms about harshly exercising his authority then.

Thank the Maker the King didn’t know Cullen had been in love with Kate Cousland before she died defeating the archdemon. And Margie Trevelyan before she resigned her Inquisitor post to marry Alistair. He’d never told anyone and those heartaches were distant memories, but Cullen suspected Alistair wouldn’t be so friendly if he knew. It was bad enough that Alistair had seen him trapped in the Circle, demanding the Hero purge the tower; however many years past, that shame wouldn’t completely fade.

“I thought we three could start with a walk in the market,” Margie said. “Unless you are too tired from your travels, Cullen?”

“I’m fine.” He was lost. “But, what are we starting? I don’t know the purpose of this visit.”

“Alistair,” the Queen shot her husband a suspicious look. “You didn’t send Cullen some vague, official summons, did you?”

The King gave her a mischievous smile. “I might have.”

The Royal Bastard had been messing with him. Cullen pursed his lips and frowned.

“Oh, Alistair,” Margie sighed in reluctant amusement and turned back to Cullen. “Your vacation.  Cassandra told me you hadn’t had any time to yourself in over a year, so I suggested you spend a month with us in Denerim.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “That is, if you’ll forgive my beloved and still be our friend.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Cullen remembered his manners and bowed.

A forced holiday. As Alistair’s guest. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted less.


	2. Assassins in the marketplace

Ev was nearly home.

She stopped by Gorim’s stall to deliver some elfroot and collect Orzammar news. Then she headed for her house with her basket of herbs, weaving through the gawking crowd. The King and Queen were in the market with a contingent of guards, not an unheard-of occurrence. She didn’t understand why that meant you had to block traffic to stare.

She elbowed past a shopper haggling with the pearls merchant and caught sight of her door. Just another ten steps.

She froze in shock when an archer swung around the corner of her house and loosed an arrow into the crowd.

“Cullen!” a woman screamed. Queen Margaret.

A cacophony of shouts and pounding feet filled the market as shoppers and merchants alike ran in panic. The echo of steel leaving scabbards rang around the royal guards. There were at least a dozen archers in masks taking aim on an already-prone figure surrounded by the King’s entourage.

An alarm horn rang from the fortress battlements. Someone must have seen or heard the commotion.

Ev dropped her basket and ran for her house. Curving left to avoid the archer, she grabbed a hefty branch from her woodpile.

As the archer raised his second shot, she swung with her full weight, striking him in the side of the skull with an upswing that knocked him into the side of the house. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless. She didn’t have time to think about that.

Branch still in hand, Ev spun to face the market.

Gorim plunged a dagger upward under an archer’s breastplate and the human fell with a cry. On the opposite side of the market, another archer fell, the Queen’s dual blades in his back. She yanked her weapons out and dropped more cloaking powder.

Fifty more royal guards poured from the fortress into the market. The remaining assassins ran. Ev doubted any would escape, not with the Queen’s angry Captain leading the charge.

“We need a Healer!” Queen Margaret shouted, running back to the body surrounded by guards.

Ev sprinted for them and the guards made room for her. Everyone in Denerim knew who Healer Evelyn was.

But the unconscious blond pierced with arrows was a stranger. His body completely sheltered another beneath him.

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” King Alistair insisted. “Get him off me!”

Guards lifted the unconscious man’s arms and legs and set him gently face-down on the ground. He coughed some blood, but made no other sound. An arrow protruded from his right calf. Two more stuck out at odd angles from his right side: lucky shots that had found gaps in the shiny armor he wore under his unseasonably heavy coat.

At least a dozen more arrows lay on the ground around him. Without that armor, he’d already be dead. He had a lump on his forehead; perhaps he’d hit his head when he’d pushed the King out of harm’s way.

She hated head injuries.

_Andraste guide me._

“Gorim, my litter!” Ev shouted.

“On it!” he dwarf ran to her house and used his key to go in and fetch the rolled-up stretcher.

She knelt by the injured man and placed her fingers to his neck, both to check his pulse and to connect with his life force. It was pounding, roaring—the most unique life force she’d ever encountered—but if she didn’t act soon, it would turn thready and he’d expire.

The market was deathly quiet as the King and Queen watched her, and the circle of guards around them watched the abandoned square on high alert for further dangers.

As Gorim laid out the litter, the running sound of small bare feet broke the silence and the circle parted again for Georgie to burst through.

“I thought you’d gone to Gran’s,” Ev greeted her young assistant with a smile. “You hear the trumpets and come back?”

Georgie gave a businesslike nod and knelt by the patient’s knees opposite of Gorim, who knelt by his shoulders. Ev moved to his head.

“One, two . . .” on her third count, the trio lifted the patient to the litter and Ev and Gorim carried him the twenty yards to her home, the King and Queen following them inside. The guards posted themselves in a ring around the outside of the one-room building.

“There’s a seat and fresh water pitcher in the corner, Your Majesties,” Ev nodded to the right of the door and the Queen pulled her husband out of the way.

“My bitch of a sister used to live here,” the King grumbled.

“Alistair, hush.” The Queen pressed a kiss to her husband’s cheek and guided him to sit. “Let the Healer help Cullen.”

Cullen. An uncommon name, just like his uncommon life force. This must be the summer guest Stella had told her about, here on holiday from the refugee services organization that was once the Inquisition.

Three curtains hung from the ceiling to separate the medical table from the entry, living, and dining areas. They set the litter on the table and lifted Cullen so Georgie could pull the litter out. Ev put a horseshoe pillow around his head to straighten his neck and keep his face up off the table.

Cullen gave a wheezing rattle and coughed more blood. The Queen gasped in alarm.

“I’ve got him,” Ev assured her. Ever since that first touch where she’d taken his pulse, she’d kept the connection where her heart and ears felt the rhythm of his life force; she’d push some of her own life into him to hold him this side of the Veil, if it became necessary.

“But one’s in his lung and I can’t just yank it out—big arrowhead like that, he’d bleed too much before I could heal the tissue.”

A fire always burned in the hearth, heating a cauldron of water to a boil. In front was another table with steel basins of clean equipment that had been washed and sterilized. Ev could usually defeat an infection with herbs or magic, but it was easier to prevent infection in the first place, and most of her dwarven patients were too resistant for magic to help.

“Can’t save the coat,” Ev said, picking up her shears.

“Thank the Maker,” the King replied, “He’s had that damn thing for sixteen years.” His wife elbowed him.

“Go ahead,” she said.

Ev quickly snipped Cullen’s coat, shirt, and breeches into panels for easy removal. Gorim helped her with the buckles on the breast plate, bracers, and shin guards, careful not to joggle the arrows in Cullen’s calf and side. When Cullen was down to his smalls, they strapped his shoulders and hips to the table to keep him stationary.

Ev could feel the Queen’s fascinated gaze as she and her two assistants put on aprons and tied kerchiefs over their mouths. The Healer and merchant held their hands over an empty bowl for Georgie to pour a brown liquor over them, dried their hands on a clean towel, and tossed the towel into a basket under the equipment table. Ev helped clean Georgie’s hands and they all got into position.

“Gorim, I want a full dose of ethers.”

He sat by Cullen’s head, poured some from a bottle onto a cloth, and slid his hand between the pillow and table to cover the patient’s nose for seven seconds.

“Here we go,” Ev murmured.

Georgie handed her a thin steel blade. Ev made small, swift, accurate cuts around the first layers of flesh holding the arrow in the lung, her assistant coming behind to apply pressure with clean linens when needed. When she made the incision in the lung itself, a watery gurgle echoed through the room and the Queen sobbed.

“Maker,” the King sounded green, but Ev remained focused on her task.

She had to be quick to avoid shock and excess blood loss.

“Got it,” she dumped the arrowhead and blade into a basin Georgie held out and Ev immediately covered the wound with her hand.

All external sound fell away. She could hear his life roar its course through every cell, all energy speeding for this bleeding spot like warriors charging into battle. From the centers of her mind and heart, she pushed along that thundering energy, pouring her own power along its paths to mold the tissue via sheer will.

Ev stood stationary, with no incantations or flashy lights, as Cullen’s lung and side swiftly mended, leaving a shiny soft new spot of skin where the arrow had once protruded. The Queen gasped again.

“Never seen anything like it,” the King muttered.

Inside, Ev gave a silent sigh of relief. Cullen’s life force remained strong in the beating of her heart and ears. She’d been swift enough.

“The next two are easier,” she said cheerfully. “Another dose, please, Gorim.”

She made the incisions, pulled the arrows, and healed the flesh together.

_Thank you, Maker._

Her heart soared every time she got through a surgery, when the Maker’s gifts helped her save a life.

“Excellent,” she took off her kerchief and tossed it in the basket. “He didn’t even need any stitches, he’s so receptive to my magic.”

The King snorted.

Perhaps his guest didn’t care for mages. Ev didn’t care. She’d healed plenty of people who had come to her in desperation and then shunned her once they were well. It was part of the job and her patients could interpret the Chant any way they liked, without any judgment from her.

“Let’s get him turned over and into bed,” Ev said.

They removed the straps and rolled Cullen to his back. Georgie brought hot water and a rag and towel over for Gorim to clean him up. Ev pulled back the curtain separating the living area and the trio made the transfer from the table to her bed.

“Gorim, please take the first watch. Make sure he can turn his head to cough fluids.”

The dwarf settled on a stool by Cullen’s side. Without instructions, Georgie started tidying the medical area, stripping linens, and sterilizing equipment.

“Thank you,” the Queen’s voice was thick, her face streaked with dried tears. She clung to her husband, who had a protective arm wrapped around her waist.

“My pleasure, Your Majesty. He’ll need to stay here a day or two to watch for any ether aftereffects and make sure his lung has fully cleared.

“I’d prefer if you’d take your guards home with you. They’d make my clinic an obvious target for anyone who thinks the King is inside. And they’d scare away all my patients.”

The King nodded. “Seeing me march home unharmed in broad daylight should be enough to keep prying eyes away.” He looked to his wife. “Is that okay with you, Margie?”

“Yes,” she pressed her cheek into his shirtfront. “I trust Healer Evelyn and her companions to watch over him.”

It was a relief to hear the armored feet tramp away toward the fortress. She could focus on the patient, not his concerned friends, and maybe take a nap on the rug in front of the hearth until it was her turn to watch. Even when she didn’t use magic, surgery always left her tired once the thrill had dissipated.

Georgie had all the equipment cleaned and was folding Cullen’s ruined clothes into a pile when something fell out of the breeches pocket to the floor with a clink.

“What’s that?” Ev asked.

With the strangers gone, Georgie would talk aloud. Ev, Gorim, and Gran weren’t strangers. Georgie wouldn’t even speak with Stella, though they often exchanged hugs and worked side-by-side, having their own little ways of silent communication.

“Looks like a coin,” Georgie said, holding it up to the firelight. “Old and bent, like it was run over with a wagon wheel, but pretty. Bits are worn smooth, like a good luck charm, maybe?”

“Fat lot of good it did him today,” Gorim said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Georgie answered, slipping the coin into Cullen’s palm and wrapping the man’s fingers around it. “He survived today, didn’t he?”


	3. Mercy for a mercenary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We met Sam during [chapter 14](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637895/chapters/12991861) of Enchant My Heart.

_Maker, if they kill me, please let it be quick._

Sam sat on the cold, damp floor of the dungeon in the Denerim fortress, back against the stone wall, forehead to his knees, wishing he was back on his parents’ starving farm ten miles outside of Redcliffe. He’d told Princess Sera the truth when she’d questioned him in the courtyard—he’d thought he was helping Magister Pavus with a hostage exchange, not sneaking in to kidnap the Princess’ friend for an unidentified Altus—but that was no excuse. He was as guilty as his five new “colleagues” the Princess and Enchanter had killed less than a week ago.

Maybe it would have been better if she had just killed him then.

The sound of a gate opening echoed down the hall and a lone set of footsteps approached.

Sam stood and clutched the wall at his back with stiff fingers.

He blinked in surprise when the Princess appeared with dry clothes draped over one arm and a steaming bucket of fresh water hanging from her other hand.

“Here you go, Sam,” she opened the little inner-gate in the bottom of his barred cell door and slid the bucket through. Her tone was eerily neutral, like they were discussing morning tea. Not that he’d ever had morning tea in his life, but he’d heard other people did.

She draped the clothing over the waist-high horizontal bar in the cell door: fresh breeches, a linen shirt, a plain leather jerkin, smalls, and . . . a fancy, well-crafted breast binding wrap.

Stricken, he looked up into her knowing gold gaze. He should have rubbed more dirt on his face to imitate stubble, even if it didn’t match his short, grubby brown hair.

“You’ve been down here with naught but rations and a chamber pot for days, yet you look clean-shaven,” the Princess said conversationally. “We’re alone; it’s safe for you to clean up.” She took a towel and face cloth from her shoulder and placed them on top of the clothes. “I won’t peek.”

Princess Sera, heir to the throne of Ferelden, crossed her arms and turned her back, the white of her neck as visible as the gold hair pinned up on her head in the dim light. She wore her shining steel shield on her back—the incomprehensibly heavy shield she’d felled him with earlier in the week—and her sword at her side.

Desperate to get clean before the water cooled, Sam yanked off his boots and clothes.

“So,” the Princess said over her shoulder, “How old are you?”

“Twenty, Your Highness.”

“Bullshit,” she snorted in amusement.

“Seventeen.”

“Truly?” she sounded curious, not doubting.

“Everyone in my family is small. We don’t . . .”

“Eat much?”

“Yes. Mistress Dennet gifts us with a flank of Druffalo each Harvestmere, so that’s usually the easiest month, even with the first snowfall.”

He plunged the smaller cloth into the water, nearly scalding his hands, and quickly scrubbed his face and body. Then he knelt in the pile of soiled clothes to dunk his head upside-down in the bucket to wash his hair, scrape his scalp raw with anxious fingertips.

In the three weeks he’d been traveling with the other mercenaries, he hadn’t dared get fully naked to bathe in the lakes and streams they’d passed. The other men didn’t notice; they rarely did more than rinse their faces and hands themselves. They had all been well-fed, with well-crafted clothing and gear—except Sam.

His serviceable short sword and dagger had been a gift from his eldest brother, Buck, home from the Inquisition for a short visit; everything else about Sam screamed poverty. Even if the great Inquisition hero Dorian Pavus himself had strode up to the farm to recruit him, he wouldn’t have gone with the mercenaries if there’d been enough to eat at home. He was the youngest and the last to leave, hoping his parents would have more for themselves if he wasn’t there.

He sniffed away a tear and hurriedly dressed. Or tried to. The fancy binding device took him a full two minutes to figure out.

“Thank you, Your Highness,” he said when he was done. “I don’t deserve such kindness.”

“Oh,” she said cheerily, turning to face him. “None of us does.”

While he was trying to figure out whether that was a joke or an insult, an alarm horn rang from above.

“Oh, come on,” the Princess said with a sigh, “You’re pretty worthless with a blade, but if there’s real trouble, I don’t want you trapped down here alone.”

To his shock, she pulled a key from her pocket and opened the cell door. Not even meeting the Herald of Andraste had surprised him so.

“Stick close to me,” Princess Sera instructed, “I’ll keep you alive.”


	4. Cullen’s coin

He was swimming in fog. No, walking in fog. No. Falling!

He walked in the Denerim market with Margie and Alistair, trying to think of excuses to keep the visit short, but Cassandra had already told them he could be gone—should be gone—for at least a month to refresh himself. It was nonsense.

He felt that dangerous itch between his shoulder blades and caught sight of the archer. There wasn’t time to shout a warning. He shoved the King to the ground as sharp pains pierced his side and his head hit the ground.

_Maker, don’t leave Margie alone._

That had been his last thought before everything went black. Now everything was fog. He was naked. Was he swimming on his back? He moved his arms, feeling soft sheets. So he was in a bed, not a lake. One of his hands held the familiar feeling of the charm his brother had given him.

 _That should be in my pocket._ No, if he was unclothed, he didn’t have any pockets. What had he been thinking about? Oh, the market.

“I hate shopping,” he groaned.

A rich, feminine laugh danced through his ears. He opened his eyes to stare up into eyes greener than any grass in Ferelden or the Free Marches. It was a fair-skinned woman with thick lashes and obsidian-black hair pinned in multiple braids around her head.

“Good evening, Commander. I’m Healer Evelyn.” She gave him an encouraging smile. “Move slowly and take your time. The surgery went well, but even with my help, it’s going to be a day or two before you’re well enough to return to the fortress.”

He was groggy, his mind cloudier than it had been in years.

“Surgery?”

She waited in patient silence while his brain worked through that.

“The King, Margie!” He gasped in panic and grabbed her elbow, his fingers almost as weak and wobbly as his mind was cloudy. “Were they hit?”

“They’re fine, safely home. You were the only one hurt: Three arrows—I’ve removed them all—and you hit your head on the way down.”

His mouth felt parched and it felt like there was a heavy, sharp stone in his chest, like when he’d had pneumonia when he was ten.

A sudden, watery cough grabbed him, convulsing him onto his left side toward the Healer. She wiped blood from his lips with a soft cloth.

“Maker,” he whispered in pain once he could taste air again.

“He certainly was watching over us today,” she smiled and gently soothed his mussed hair back from his face.

Cullen sighed and turned his cheek into her palm. No one had touched him with such tenderness since he’d hugged his mother goodbye at age thirteen and joined the Order.

Something poked up from the middle of his ether-addled mind: she was a Healer and he’d just taken a liberty. Had he? Before he could sort through that thought and apologize, she adjusted his blankets and cheerily moved to her feet.

“I’ll get you some water.”

Mesmerized, he watched her progress toward the water pitcher in the corner, her light summer dress flowing from her hips to her ankles.

 _Get it together, Rutherford._ Ether or no ether, staring wasn’t appropriate. He forced himself to look at the rest of the room.

It was a room. Just one, with curtains and furniture designating different areas for medicine, living, and eating. A towheaded child slept curled up on a thick rug in front of the fire.

“I’m in your bed,” he struggled to lift his head, found his neck and abdomen too weak to comply.

“It’s okay,” she sat back on the bedside stool and slid a strong arm behind his back, supported his neck with her shoulder as he sat up. “Just a tiny sip now.”

Even that had him coughing. Blighted hell, he couldn’t even drink water.

“The first couple attempts will be like that,” Evelyn set the cup aside and wiped his chin. “You’ll be coughing blood for a day or two—all those healthy cells expunging the gunk—and your body will be overly cautious about keeping more fluids out of your lung.”

“I . . . they hit my _lung_? How did . . .” he tilted his head back to meet her eye. The friendliness of her gaze dimmed to a cautious professional light.

 _How did I survive?_ She’d removed multiple arrows, but he felt no holes, nor the pull of sutures.

Magic. He could see her retreat, even though she remained sitting with him leaned against her. Maybe she didn’t know he’d been a Templar, but she seemed braced to face a mage-hater. He wanted her cheerfulness back, for her to feel safe talking to him.

“Where did you study?” he asked. Surgeons were even rarer than healers, and he hadn’t ever heard of a surgeon who was a mage.

“All over,” her smile was a touch warmer this time, though he still sensed her caution. “I’ve consulted with a variety of independent professionals and taken a few study trips to the College. I even deliberated with someone from the new Circle once, though we met in a well-lit pub and didn’t go anywhere near the Spire.”

He chuckled at that. It hurt, but was worth it. Especially with her soft breast pressed against his aching ribs.

“The most brilliant surgeon I know gifted me the capital for this clinic before she went home to join the Legion, so now I stick close to Denerim.”

 _Home to join the Legion._ A surface dwarf who went down to join the nameless in the Legion of the Dead—to fight darkspawn and die in the Deep Roads.

That blew his mind. A dwarf had shared medical knowledge with a human.

“Was she a Warden?”

“No,” Evelyn shook her head with a melancholy smile.

The sound of a trunk opening drew Cullen’s attention back to the fireside. The child was up and digging through the trunk—strange clattering sounds came from within, like walking on chipped ice—cold vapors rising out like mists off a frozen lake in spring.

“Good idea, Georgie,” Evelyn said. “The Commander might find an ice chip easier than drinking.”

Georgie closed the lid and walked over with a cup full of ice chips and a floppy cloth bag.

“In summer,” Evelyn explained, “Enchanter Stella comes by thrice a week to make ice and freeze bags of beans for me. I haven’t the elemental talents myself.”

“Your talent is amazing,” Cullen said absently, licking his dry lips with his swollen tongue when Georgie offered him the cup. “Thank you, Georgie.” He accepted it with a trembling hand.

With a bright smile, Georgie nodded and returned to the medical area and started moving baskets of soiled linens out the back door.

“Why freeze beans?” Cullen asked.

“To reduce swelling. You’ve got a lump on your forehead.”

Without thinking, he raised his hand to touch the spot. “Ouch!” he hissed and she chuckled.

“You can ice up to ten minutes of every hour, if you wish.”

A key turned in the lock and a dwarf with a braided beard entered.

“Good evening, Gorim,” Evelyn greeted him with a smile as bright as what she gave her young assistant.

A new ache unrelated to his injuries formed in the center of Cullen’s sternum.

“Good evening, Ev,” the dwarf blinked in surprise. “Commander, it’s good to see you sitting up already.”

Cullen nodded a polite acknowledgement, cautious not to make any sudden movements that would make him dizzy.

Who was the dwarf? He had a key and called the Healer “Ev,” a beautiful, intimate nick name. The human child, already taller than him, wasn’t his, but could be hers. And it wasn’t unheard of for Surfacers to marry humans.

“Do you want to try to sit on your own now?” she asked.

Ev—Evelyn—Healer Evelyn. _Blight it._ He couldn’t help but think of her as “Ev” now, though she would probably never allow him the privilege.

“Yes, thank you,” he said what propriety required, though he wouldn’t mind having her arms around him all night.

Hand still clutching his coin, Cullen leaned his weight on his fists and Ev slowly slid away, ready to jump back if he started to fall.

“I’m good. Thank you, Healer Evelyn.”

Then a new voice caught his attention. It was deep and gravely, like a grizzled veteran, but with the inflections of a bright young bard introducing a song or story.

“Sorry we couldn’t save your clothes, Commander,” Georgie set the pile of garments on his sheet-covered lap. “We’ve breeches and shirts that will fit you, and I found this for your coin, if you’d like it.” The youth held up a gold chain that shined in the firelight.

“Thank you, Georgie,” Cullen handed the coin over. “I’d like that.”

Georgie took the coin to the kitchen table, where a hammer and nail sat waiting. One light tap of the hammer on the nail head put a hole near the top edge of the coin for the chain to pass through and Georgie brought it back to hand to Cullen.

“Thank you,” Cullen said again, slipping the chain over his neck. “It’s perfect.”

Georgie gave him a sunny smile and went out the back door.

Ev and the dwarf watched the door, mouths open in shock.

Cullen frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Ev said absently. “Nothing at all.” With a confused smile, she dragged her gaze back to him.

“We’ve some washing to do. Gorim can help with whatever you need.”

Ev followed Georgie out and closed the back door.

While Cullen pondered that, Gorim set a chamber pot, wash bucket, and clean clothes by the bed.

“You can lean on this,” he placed a chair by Cullen’s side, “and I’ll be on your other side, in case you want any assistance.”

“Thank you, Ser Gorim,” Cullen slowly rose to his wobbly legs, “I appreciate your hospitality and I’m grateful for your wife’s talents.”

Gorim threw back his head and roared with laughter. He sniffed and wiped an amused tear from his eye.

“The stories about you are true, Commander: You’ve no sense of subtlety.”

Physically weak and standing in nothing but his smalls, Cullen flushed red all over and rubbed the back of his neck, fingers taking comfort in the texture of the new chain that hung there.

“Sorry,” Gorim chuckled, “didn’t mean to embarrass you. We’re not married—she turned me down. Need help with those breeches?”

No way was he going to give Gorim that satisfaction.

“I think I can manage.”

-

Clean and clothed, Cullen rested in the bed, head turned to watch Ev’s graceful, precise movements. She was as strong as her hair was dark, as smart as her skin was fair. And curved in all the right places. She was beautiful.

That not-injured ache was back in his chest.

“I’ve got a rich meat broth,” Ev knelt by the hearth to ladle some into a mug, “If you can handle that, you can eat whatever you want, but, in addition to whatever else you eat, I recommend drinking this three times a day for a week.” She stood. “To avoid anemia.”

She started toward him, but he waved her off. “I can eat at the table.”

She patiently watched him from the middle of the room as he rolled onto his side, slowly pushed himself to a seated position, and eased up to his feet, resting his hand on the back of the chair Gorim had left by his bed— _her_ bed. He pushed the thought away and focused on careful steps to the table, where he gratefully sank into a chair.

“I can’t even walk across a room,” he muttered.

“You’re doing well, Commander,” with a merry laugh, she set the mug in front of him. “Most wouldn’t even be able to sit up yet.”

“That’s your talent, Evelyn, not mine.”

Smile still cheery, but eyes suspiciously bright, like she might be tearing up, she breezily answered, “I’m a mage, not the Maker. Only He can instantly bring someone to full health.”

She turned to organize her already-tidy cupboards.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered, just as her stomach rumbled loud enough for him to hear. She glanced over her shoulder.

He smiled and raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“That wasn’t an outright lie,” she said with a sigh. “It’s only been a few hours.”

“Care to join me?” he gestured toward an open chair with his raised mug.

She hesitated. Perhaps he had been too bold.

“It’s a good broth,” she said with a nod, “I could use some, too.”

She ladled up a mug for herself and sat in the chair he had offered to his right. He didn’t miss her infinitesimal motion to sit two seats down, leave an empty seat between them, before she sat next to him.

Heat settled in his belly and below, and he resisted the urge to vocalize a growl of satisfaction.

He purposely let an overly-friendly undercurrent flow through his next inquiry.

“Do I make you nervous, Ev?”

She kept her eyes averted while she sipped. “Of course not, Cullen.”

That was a lie. They both knew it.

“I’m perfectly safe in your company,” she continued.

Perhaps she referred to the professional distance between them. He wouldn’t be her patient much longer, though, and, after he assured his host and hostess he was fine, he planned to return and properly thank her as a fully-well man.

She was the first woman to spark his interest in more than a dozen years.

Not that he’d spent every night alone. His two unrequited loves were distantly past. In subsequent years, especially the day before or after a challenging mission, he’d exchanged mutual pleasures and release with other soldiers—each of those women knew battle as he did, shared and took comfort in equal measure, and they always left on friendly terms.

He kept a professional distance from those within his own ranks, finding intimate partners amongst the most experienced of his allies’ troops before they were deployed elsewhere. He didn’t mind that they didn’t seem particularly attached to him; it made it easier for him not to form attachments himself.

But he felt a spark here. Whatever disaster came later, he wanted to give that spark a chance to catch flame.

He didn’t want to spend his summer holiday in the King’s shadow.

Cullen wanted to woo Evelyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Georgie's voice is like Mass Effect's [Zaeed Massani](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RvkOQ988ASI), voiced by the awesome [Robin Sachs](http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0755179/) (1951-2013). We miss you!


	5. Wicked Grace

After the botched attempt to kidnap Enchanter Stella, Sam hadn’t thought he’d get out of Denerim alive, much less end up playing cards with the Queen, Princess, Enchanter, and Messere Rollie. He didn’t know if it was the Maker’s mercy or some kind of trap.

If he’d known how to write, he’d have sent his parents a letter with the scandalous news that the Herald of Andraste played Wicked Grace; not that his parents would have been able to read it. They all could read the playing cards and follow suits because Buck had taught them once when home for a visit and there was nothing else to do when you were snowed in on the farm. But his parents had never learned their letters, so neither did he.

Here, Sam understood almost none of the conversation. It was all about alliances and magic, and international trade. He understood a little bit about dual blades—again, thanks to Buck—breeding livestock, and growing Fereldan food, but that was about it.

“How is Cullen today, Stella?” the Queen asked.

Sam’s ears perked up. Thanks to Denerim’s most talented Healer, Commander Rutherford had returned to the fortress just one day after being shot while protecting the King. The Commander’s military prowess and care for refugees was just as big a tale in Redcliffe as the Herald’s closing of the Breach. Sam had grown up desperately wanting to be like the Commander, not a scrawny farmer.

A silent servant entered the patio—servants were always slipping in and out, another incomprehensible luxury—and bowed, showing a sealed scroll to the Princess. With a scowl, Princess Sera shook her head and motioned toward her mother.

“Put it on my desk, please,” the Queen said, and returned her attention to the Enchanter.

“Cullen’s doing very well,” the Enchanter slipped her latest card to the back of her hand. “I froze a bag of beans for him to lie on; the swelling’s improving quickly. He’ll be at dinner.”

“So,” Sam asked, curiosity overcoming the sense to keep quiet, “The King and Commander are old friends?”

Princess Sera snorted. “Cullen couldn’t wait to join the Templars. Dad couldn’t wait to get away.” She tossed her bid in the center. “They argued at Kinloch Hold, fell in love with the same woman—twice—and the Commander has no idea how to handle jokes or romance.

“It’s your play, Rollie.”

“Oh!” The dark-haired gentleman looked down at his hand, brow furrowed.

“And no asking your fiancé for help,” the Princess continued. “If you don’t have the coin, you can take off your shirt and put it in the pot.”

“Sera,” the Queen warned quietly, but Messere Rollie chuckled.

“I fold,” he said, placing his cards on the table and draping his arm over the back of Enchanter Stella’s chair, leaning over to peek at her hand. “It’s a good thing I did.”

“Rollie!” the Enchanter hissed, and he kissed her on the cheek.

Sam didn’t understand nobles at all. He considered everyone else at the table a noble, even after Enchanter Stella’s patient explanations about how she, her fiancé, and the Commander were common-born.

If Messere Rollie was a common wool farmer, Sam would eat his own breeches. No one looked like that, spoke like that, fought like that, if they were a peasant.

He should know. Sam was a peasant from a struggling farm ten miles outside of Redcliffe, the youngest of seven children who barely ate enough to survive, each leaving with the hope that one less mouth to feed would make it easier for Ma and Da to survive.

Maybe he’d wake up back in his cell to find this had been a dream. No other adventure could be more odd.

He was wrong.


	6. I want more

He was gone.

Evelyn wanted more. More time with Cullen. More smiles, more words, more heated glances. More Cullen.

It was ridiculous. She couldn’t say unprofessional because he was no longer her patient. He was back with his friends, enjoying his summer holiday, so she’d have to stick with ridiculous.

Before he’d stumbled to bed alone last night, they’d talked like old friends, not new acquaintances. For every tidbit he’d shared about refugees and the Inquisition, he’d asked her about practicing medicine in the capitol.

No, she couldn’t be in lo—lust with someone after just a few hours of conversation about their jobs. There was nothing attractive or romantic about cutting people open; not with a scalpel, not with a sword.

She stripped the bed. Cullen had washed and slept in it just one day, but her policy was to change the sheets between every user, herself or a patient.

Ev buried her face in the soft fabric in her hands, inhaled the masculine musk unique to Cullen.

“Ridiculous,” she muttered to herself with a scowl, and forcibly dumped the sheets into a laundry basket.

She hauled the basket out the back door to her little fenced yard no passers-by could see into, dumped the sheets in a wash barrel, and stirred in the lye. She rinsed the sheets, put them through the wringer, and hung them on the clothesline. It was late to be hanging wash, but she wanted to have Cullen’s presence scrubbed out of her home before she tried to sleep.

Ev made the bed, finished the dinner dishes, and locked up for the night. Anyone with an emergency would knock loud enough to wake her. One last wash of face and hands and she was ready for bed.

She stripped off her summer dress and underthings and tidily placed them on a chair at the end of her bed before sliding between the smooth sheets.

She bet his hands didn’t feel smooth.

 _Damn it._ She hadn’t washed all thoughts of Cullen from her mind.

Sometimes connecting with a patient’s life force led them to form a temporary attachment to her. Plenty of patients, men and women alike, had experienced short-term crushes that soon dissipated. Maybe this feeling was that process in reverse.

 _Bullshit_ , as Queen Margaret and Princess Sera would say. Ev had been professionally curious about Cullen’s unique life force, but had felt no attraction—until he’d sat at her table and invited her to sit by him, appreciative heat in his eyes.

It wasn’t the first time a man clearly wanted her, but it was the first time she’d immediately wanted him back.

And then they’d talked, oh, they’d talked.

Ev stretched out in her lonely bed, stretching her arms overhead, imaging Cullen’s sword-calloused hands exploring her soft skin and toned muscles. He ran his palms over her breasts and hips, a delicious combination of strong and gentle that made her wet for more. She traced her own hands down over his, then up into her own loose hair as he guided her legs open and spread her labia with his strong fingers.

Cullen’s focus and dedication had shone through in everything he’d said last night. He probably showed that kind of precise determination when working a sweet spot— _Stop!_

She dragged her mind back into her solitary present.

He was interested. She was interested. But that didn’t mean it was going to happen. The summer would end soon, and Cullen return to the Inquisition, unlikely to remember much about the Healer he’d flirted with while on holiday.

Yet she needed release. It was a healthy, biological thing most people needed. She knew how to give herself pleasure, and set about the task with quick precision. But, unlike any other time in her life, she surprised herself and called out someone’s name when orgasm crashed through her:

“ _Cullen!_ ”

-

As was his habit, Cullen woke alone at dawn. He barely felt sore at all, except for the shrinking yellowish lump on his forehead.

In the full-length mirror, he eyed the fresh patch of skin over his right side. It was shiny and new, soft where he ran his fingers over it, making himself shiver, like a young oasis in the midst of his more weathered skin.

Ev worked miracles, not just magic.

Without his traditional coat, his heavier armor drew too much attention, so he settled for a leather jerkin over his borrowed linen shirt and breeches. No one would notice a plain scabbard at his side.

He lifted his shield with his left hand and immediately set it down again, fingers and arm feeling too loose to handle the weight. He eyed it a moment, considering. The shiny Inquisition shield shouted his identity more than anything, anyway, so he left it in his room.

He felt oddly light going downstairs.

Cullen filled his plate with a standard breakfast, despite the generous buffet the staff had already laid in the formal dining room. He always ate enough to keep a clear head and strong arm, but he was used to rations and, even if he was on holiday, couldn’t bring himself to eat like every meal was a grand banquet.

As he settled at table, a servant brought out a steaming mug of the broth Ev had recommended.

“Thank you,” Cullen said.

The servant bowed and returned to the kitchen.

If he was at home, he’d be overseeing troop inspections this hour. He was Commander of no one and nothing here, but surely he could find someone to help him keep his edge. Perhaps some of the off-duty guards would like to spar. He didn’t have anywhere else to be, anyone else to talk to.

Unbidden, the image of Ev’s face floated into his mind like a watery mirage that grew stronger and clearer: Ev’s fair face with light laugh lines around her mouth and eyes, showing her both wise and kind, closer to his own age than the Enchanter who worked here. He was certain if she let her black hair free of the braids circling her head, it would feel as fine silk in his hands—

 _Enough._ Addled by ethers, he had overstepped his bounds with Healer Evelyn that first night. Today, his mind was clear, and he was not about to harass the woman who had saved his life.

He went down to inspect the sparring arena and found Margie sitting on the long bench in front of the stables, cloths spread out over a low table, oiling her dual blades. Her left hand was gloved, hiding the anchor. When she’d been Inquisitor, she’d gloved her right and kept her left hand bare.

She looked up with a warm smile. “Good morning, Cullen. Looks like we both can’t shake routine, even on a lazy summer day.” She gestured for him to sit by her and pushed the oil tin and a rag toward him before returning to her task.

They worked for several minutes in companionable silence. Until . . .

“I know that sigh,” Margie said with barely contained laughter. “You’re mooning over someone.”

 _Shit._ He hadn’t known he made a sound.

“You’re mistaken,” he said tightly. Then remembered who he was talking to, and amended with a more polite, “Your Majesty.”

She laughed. “Oh, Cullen, you couldn’t lie to save your life.” She paused her polishing to eye him mischievously. He remained resolutely focused on his task.

“Let’s see,” she said. “You’ve only been here two full days and under my roof for one of those nights. Half that time you spent near death’s door—thank you again for saving my husband’s life, by the way—”

He shrugged and blushed, eyes still focused on his sword.

“You’ve not eyed anyone in the fortress,” she went on amicably, “and seem to be the only man between here and Minrathous who isn’t considering himself a suitor for my daughter—”

Cullen sputtered, his hand lurching sideways, and nearly cut his thumb.

Margie laughed, “Don’t worry: Sera refuses to marry anyone other than Brayden, and the official announcement will go out by year’s end.”

Cullen set his rag down, and placed his hands flat on the table, mind spinning for a way to politely leave the conversation and go elsewhere.

“And you didn’t have that gold chain when you arrived,” Margie’s voice softened.

His brother’s coin was hidden beneath his shirt and jerkin, but, without his big coat, the back and sides of the shiny new chain were clear along the fair skin of his neck.

She cared and wanted to help. Margie had always been his friend. She’d just never been in love with him. That thought no longer made his chest ache. There was another, new ache he wasn’t sure he was ready to talk about.

“Ev’s—Healer Evelyn’s young assistant gave it to me,” he said calmly, though he couldn’t pull his gaze from the tabletop.

“Oh, how wonderful!” she was cheery again. “The Healer is available, you’re smart and sweet enough to catch her interest, and she’s only seven years your junior, a much better match than my unruly child.”

The Queen picked up her rag and resumed polishing her dagger.

Cullen snorted in disbelief. “I’m forty-seven fucking years old, Margie, and chained to my command. What do I have to offer her?”

“It certainly isn’t your cheery disposition,” Alistair walked up, lips twitching in amusement.

“Cullen’s found a girl,” Margie announced brightly, raising her cheek for Alistair to kiss.

“She’s not a girl,” Cullen grumbled. Healer Evelyn was an accomplished woman, not to be taken for granted.

“Cullen’s fallen for a man?” Alistair grinned with glee.

Cullen scowled. Margie’s giggle turned into a wheezing laugh that had her gasping for air and grabbing the table for support.

“Good day, Your Majesties,” Cullen said stiffly. He sheathed his sword and made for the keep.

As he retreated, Margie called after him, voice still ringing with amusement, “It’s her gathering day. If you hurry, you might catch her. Whatever you do, don’t give her squash or white baking flour as a thank-you.”

Cullen scowled, but changed his course for the gardens.


	7. Pie

From an upper window of the keep, Sam watched the Commander stride out the front gate on foot, a fistful of flowers in his hand. Had he some lady friend in Denerim whom he’d managed to hide from everyone? The stories always painted him as a solitary soul. It was one of the reasons Sam admired him.

To survive on his own: much as he missed the farm, Sam’s yearning to support himself was much more powerful. If he figured that out, maybe he could earn enough to send some home, like Buck did. If both he and his brother contributed, maybe Ma wouldn’t need to skip lunches.

If he trained, maybe he could be Sera’s—the Princess’ personal guard. That would be a good pension.

He looked at the roof of the stone barracks he’d been observing for the past two days. No, squashed into a stone box with more than a hundred other people was no way to live. Even the gorgeous guest room he stood in—it was bigger than his parents’ house—felt confining. At home, if they felt pinched during the summer, they could sleep out under the stars, no one else around for miles.

There were back-breaking chores, of course, and long hours during peak season, but working for Ma and Da wasn’t the same as serving a Guard Captain’s strict rotations.

Here, he wasn’t even sure what kind of “guest” he was. If he tried to walk out the gate, like the Commander, would he be stopped? Thrown back into the dungeon?

Even if he could leave, he didn’t know how to get home from Denerim.

Sam felt the memory of a strong hand on his shoulder, Da gesturing toward the plow at their feet.

“My son, where you’re at is as important as where you’re going,” he said. “Pay attention to here, as well as the end, or you’ll end up with a crooked row.”

Sam strapped on his dagger and short sword and set off to explore the fortress.

The day the Commander had been shot, Sam had followed in the Princess’ shadow, as she’d instructed. She’d even returned his weapons to him before they went up to investigate the alarm horn.

The first few hours had been tense. He’d expected everyone to question him, or the guards to attack, but everyone gave him a quick glance, noted he was accompanying the Princess, and then went about their business. After a while, their casual dismissal started to irk him.

 _I’m not_ that _harmless_.

But he’d held his tongue and listened intently as guards carried in reports and a dozen bodies from the marketplace. All were assassins, each having fought to the death or swallowed poison before they were captured. No civilians had been hurt. No one could be found for questioning.

But the Commander had been shot, and the Princess paced back and forth in front of the barracks until the King and Queen returned with the news that the Commander was stable under the Healer’s care.

By day’s-end, Sam was so tired from tension and eavesdropping, he couldn’t find the energy to be surprised when the Princess told him to come and sit by her in the dining room, where food was set out family-style for diners to help themselves. The King and Queen sat at one end of the long table with Messere Rollie and Enchanter Stella, holding a tense, quiet conversation while they ate. Sam and the Princess sat near the center, across from young Prince Duncan, who eyed Sam curiously, but didn’t say anything.

When the Princess turned to ask the Enchanter something, Duncan snatched an orange slice from his sister’s plate and popped it in his mouth, quickly settling back in his chair without so much as a hair out of place. He smiled while he chewed and threw Sam a wink.

Sam pursed his lips to keep from laughing and smiled down at his plate. That was exactly the kind of trick his next-older brother Stoker would pull. Then, of course, he’d feel guilty that you didn’t get to eat the treat and give you both of his next two treats, trying to make it up to you, even if Stewart didn’t insist he do it.

“C’mon, Sam,” Princess Sera said a short while later, “I’ll show you to your room.”

He’d fallen into bed and slept until the Princess knocked the next morning.

“C’mon, Sam, I’m hungry.”

The second day of following her around had been boring, except for watching the Princess in the sparring ring—none of the guards beat her, and he could tell they were trying to—and playing Wicked Grace on the patio.

He’d hoped for a closer look at the Commander at dinner, but he’d ended up at one end of the long table with the bickering Prince and Princess, while everyone else held quiet counsel at the opposite end.

One thing had been clear: Commander Cullen noticed and appreciated the servants. When one brought him a steaming mug at the beginning of the meal, he’d smiled, looked at the man, and thanked him directly, before returning to his conversation with the Queen.

What Sam really wanted was to see him fight, see if Buck’s stories were exaggerated, but he supposed it took a while to heal from arrow wounds. He couldn’t imagine. The worst he’d been hurt was when a druffalo had kicked him and Mistress Dennett’s friend stitched up his shin.

When he rose and bid the Prince and Princess goodnight, he was relieved when she absently responded and he was free to return to his room alone.

This morning he’d woken on his own at dawn, rushed down to eat from the buffet in the vacant dining room, and returned to his room to watch the courtyard from the window.

Now he walked through the fortress halls with an outward confidence he didn’t feel inside. Had two afternoons in the Princess’ company been enough for people to trust him? He’d just pretend to belong, like he knew where he was going. A furtive posture was always the first thing to draw attention in the Redcliffe market; he assumed that was true here, too.

The halls were mostly empty. Sam caught glimpses of and stray comments from servants stripping sheets as he passed open doors. He periodically passed patrolling guards, who nodded and he nodded back, like it was the most natural thing in Thedas, though his heart pounded in his throat.

It only took about an hour to poke his nose in every public corner of the keep and memorize the layout. He avoided the stairwells to the Royal Family’s wing and the dungeons. Approaching the former would likely put him in the latter, and he never wanted to see another dungeon again.

He thought he’d check out the courtyard next, but he caught a whiff of fresh apple pie from down the hall and his stomach rumbled. Sam followed his nose to the kitchens.

He peeked around the edge of the doorway. A petite girl, maybe around fifteen, cleaned baking utensils while a row of pies cooled on the table. She wore a light summer dress and a kerchief over her hair. She was alone.

“Good morning,” he stepped into the kitchen.

“Oh, good morning, Ser!” she said breathily. “Can I fetch you somthin’?”

He didn’t bother to correct her. Not even in jest had anyone ever called him “Ser.” Usually it was, “ _You, boy, what’s your da want for this bushel?_ ”

“Those pies smell fabulous. Did you make them?” He gave her the half-smirk of a smile he’d seen his brothers try on farmgirls at market. To his surprise and delight, it worked.

She blushed and ducked her head. “Yes, Ser. Would you—would you like to try a slice?”

“I would be honored.”

She bustled to get him a plate and settled him at the table with a generous portion.

It wasn’t his mother’s, but it was damned good. Sam made appropriate yummy sounds and compliments while she stood on the other side of the table, hands clasped in delight, her dishes forgotten.

It only took one or two leading questions to get the girl’s name, Georgeanne—“That’s a queenly name.” She blushed again.—and learn the kitchen staff’s schedule, including Georgeanne’s baking days and which of those she spent alone. She didn’t ask his name, and he didn’t offer it.

As he lifted the last bite with his fork, she watched him with rapt attention, not seeming to notice the light footfalls he heard approach. Sam set his fork down and looked to the door.

A curvy cook with lovely pink cheeks and sharp eyes came in.

“Georgeanne! Your dishes are not done.”

“Sorry, Mum,” the girl hurried back to her task.

Her mother turned her suspicious eyes toward Sam, who kept his expression neutral.

“I apologize, Ser,” the cook said politely. “We did not mean to ignore our duties.”

“It was worth the best slice of pie in Ferelden,” he tried his you’re-a-good-mother smile that worked with his own mum, and the woman’s expression softened.

“Thank you, Ser.”

Her daughter remained silent, but beamed at him.

Sam rose and gave them a little bow, “Ladies.”

The cook nodded, her daughter tittered, and he left the way he’d come in. The hall was empty, so he paused just out of sight to listen.

“You know better than to be un-chaperoned,” the cook hissed.

“Mum, nothing happened,” the girl whined. “We’re in a public place, and I wouldn’t, wouldn’t . . . ”

Her mother scoffed. “Every lass thinks she’s careful until she’s a bastard in her belly.”

It didn’t sound like he’d learn anything useful, so Sam resumed his walk toward the courtyard. He’d bet a week’s worth of rations that the cook would never leave anyone alone in the kitchen again.

Georgeanne was out.

He’d have to find another ally.


	8. Flowers, Templars, and skeptics

Ev sent Georgie down the lane to tell Gorim she was almost ready to leave. He’d hitch up his horse and cart and meet them in front of her house. They’d leave a little later than usual—a young mother had shown up at dawn with a toddler with an ear ache—but they’d still have plenty of time to travel far and gather herbs in the summer sun. Stella had already stopped by to make fresh ice, so all was in order. If anyone knocked while she was out, the pearls merchant would redirect them to one of the other healers in town.

She pulled on a light shawl—she’d wear it over her head and arms on the ride home to avoid late-afternoon sunburn—and placed her herb knife in her basket on the table.

There was a formal knock on the door. Must be someone new to Denerim. You only knocked on a clinic door if it was after hours, or the door locked.

When she opened the door, Ev’s professional smile dropped into surprised gaping.

“Good morning,” Cullen stood there, smiling, his face a healthy pink in the morning light, curly gold hair smoothed back in tight control. Without the beautifully rich coat she’d destroyed two days ago, he wore more summer-appropriate clothing, with a leather jerkin in place of his shiny armor. Instead of smaller, it made him look larger, stronger, more . . .

His smile faltered and his cheeks went red. He must have said something she hadn’t heard.

“Sorry, if you don’t want them . . .”

Ev looked down to see the bouquet he offered: cheerful wildflowers surrounding a single red rose, white carnation, and red carnation. She found her voice.

“Please stay. I love—” she cleared her throat and stepped aside for him to enter. “I love them.”

She retrieved an empty vase from her shelves by the hearth and poured water from the pitcher in the corner. When he handed her the flowers, their fingers brushed and she shivered. His capable hands were just as calloused as she’d imagined last night.

Other than Georgie and Gorim, no one had ever given her flowers. Everyone brought her what they considered practical items, though not always the right sort or what she needed.

When patients and neighbors didn’t have coin to show their appreciation—and sometimes even when they did have coin—they brought food or supplies in barter. Coins could be converted into a purchase of more bandages and dwarf salves, but she graciously accepted whatever was offered: Thanksgiving and gift giving were part of the healing process.

She usually received more squash and flour than she ever knew what to do with, but The Pearl was always grateful for a donation of the surplus. However fancy their clientele, not everyone who took shelter there was an income-producing employee, and there were always extra mouths to feed.

Today Cullen brought her a piece of living beauty. So many didn’t understand the need. Flowers cleared the mind and brightened the heart in ways an elfroot potion never could.

“Thank you, Cullen.”

“Actually,” he chuckled, “I think I’m thanking you.”

She smiled back, hope kindling.

Even before he could sit up on his own, Cullen had asked her about her studies, genuinely interested, when most people asked as a polite afterthought. Now he brought her flowers.

Some bards claimed the Commander vacillated between two personas, the blushing Chantry boy and the angry Templar soldier, yet she could see the steel in him now, while he was being sweet, and she was certain his compassion never completely left him in the battlefield. There was no dualism in him, no vindictiveness, just a soul desperate to make the world right.

 _We are very much the same._ She drew her shawl tighter around her shoulders, wondering if he would agree.

Cullen was the first Templar—ex-Templar—she hadn’t hid from. Gorim usually intercepted them before they reached her door, directed them to another clinic. She knew in her mind that most were like her other patients—they were specialized guards, not mage hunters, and the war long over—but, whenever she felt their power approaching, her life force quaked in fear, her eyes couldn’t focus, and her hands trembled too much to hold a potion, much less a scalpel.

But when she’d seen him unconscious on the ground, felt his dormant Templar powers buried deep, she’d jumped straight past the fear and into Healer mode. She hadn’t known his name or anything about him—not even seen his face.

“Are you on your way out?” he asked. “I heard it’s your gathering day. Need an extra set of hands?”

Her heart leapt. A day in Cullen’s company.

“Thank you. We’d be happy to have you join us.”

He moved toward the door.

“Your hips are off,” she said without thinking.

He paused with his hand on the door handle, eyebrow raised in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your hips and spine are out of alignment, probably from your fall. I could help you with a manual adjustment. No magic. Today’s walk would be much more comfortable for you.”

He hesitated. “I’ve never . . .”

“Only if you want,” she smiled warmly. Most were skeptical—until they tried it. “Gorim says it does his bum leg miracles, but I know chiropractic’s not for everyone.”

She held back a laugh as she watched him think it over and then respond with steely resolve. Something about Gorim’s name made him puff up with determination.

“Very well,” he said.

-

Cullen hesitated with his hand on the door handle. Let her change his spine? It sounded like magic, though she said it wasn’t.

“Gorim says it does his bum leg miracles . . .”

He frowned at that. He could handle any physical “adjustment” the dwarf could handle. He wondered how long ago Gorim had asked her to marry him, and if she’d ever reconsidered his offer. Cullen pushed the thought aside and focused on the moment. His low back did ache after the short walk from the fortress.

“Very well.”

Ev put her shawl in her herb basket and pulled a heavy, man-size pad off a set of hooks on the wall, setting it on the exam table as easily as if she hefted hay bales—or patients—for a living. The front end tapered into a horseshoe-shaped pillow with space for nose and face.

“Take off your jerkin and boots, but everything else can stay on,” Ev pulled the privacy curtain between the exam table and front door. “Start face down. I’ll palpitate along muscles, tendons, and joints, and let you know before I adjust anything.”

He placed his sword and jerkin on the chair in the corner and toed off his boots. He mostly used his right arm to support his weight as he lay down.

“Favoring your left arm?”

“Can’t lift anything heavier than a teacup,” he shifted to get his forehead comfortable against the pillow.

“I’ll take a look there, too.”

He grunted in response and she sounded amused, “I bet you’re this skeptical about everything.”

“Usually.” It was wise to start with caution, and change tactics later, if necessary.

“Relax, if you can,” she placed a warm hand between his shoulder blades, gave a reassuring rub. “I can force it, but it’s easier on you if you’re relaxed.

“I’ll start with sacrum, back, and neck,” she said briskly. She twisted her palm in a circular motion over his tailbone, poked along his hips with her thumbs, seeming to know exactly where he was tender on the first try.

“Yup, hips, sacrum, right knee.”

“Go for it,” he grumbled.

She moved with downward pushes stronger and quicker than he expected. Muscles he didn’t know were tight relaxed.

“Deep breath in,” she instructed, “now, out.” She adjusted his low back and repeated the instructions for mid-back and upper-back, between his shoulder blades. Bing-bing-bing, she was quick and accurate. He hadn’t realized he’d been breathing shallowly. Now it felt like he had so much air, he could float off the table.

None of it had hurt.

While he was thinking about that, she moved to give his left ankle a tug with both hands and he heard a pop.

“Uh . . .” he wasn’t sure what had just happened.

“Did that hurt?”

“No.”

“Good,” she said, “It moved well.”

Then her strong fingers were around the back of his neck, poking at a tender lump on his right side.

“How was breakfast?” she asked.

“What?”

With a quick twist of her fingers, she pushed his neck back into a proper curve. At least he assumed that’s what she’d done.

“Did you ask me about breakfast just to distract me?” he was surprised by the laugh in his voice. He felt _good_.

“Yes, and it made you relax your shoulders, so I didn’t have to be too mean with the adjustment.” She moved back toward his feet. “But this isn’t going to feel good.”

She touched his right calf with her thumbs

“Andraste’s flames!” It was like he had hot pokers inside his leg.

“Fibula,” she said as it snapped into place, “and the muscle’s pretty angry, too.”

He hissed out between his teeth.

She gripped his shin and the back of his knee and bent his leg a few times. The stretch felt a lot better than the adjustment had.

“You can roll over now.”

His left arm felt glued to his side.

She looked him in the eye. “I really need to check that arm, Commander.”

He unclenched his fist and laid his hand in hers, closed his eyes, and tried to force himself to relax.

Deft hands around his wrist and shoulder, she raised his arm above his head and twisted it a few different angles. None of it hurt—until she touched his bicep.

He couldn’t help but pinch his lips together and scrunch up his face. Hot fire pressed through his arm. Getting stabbed didn’t hurt like this.

She squeezed her fingers around and down his bicep and then the pressure was gone. He opened his eyes.

“Excellent,” she said cheerfully. “The the tendon went back in the groove.” She offered her hands for him to take and sit up. “You need to ice, so it doesn’t swell and pop out again.”

“I definitely don’t want to go through that last bit again,” he agreed. His arm throbbed, but he felt like he could lift something if he tried.

“Where’d you learn how to do that?”

“Amaranthine. Like I told you the other day, I want to learn every facet of medicine that I can. Magic can only take you so far.”

She settled him in a chair with an ice pack, just as the door opened and Georgie came in.

“Good morning, Commander!” the bright-eyed child ran over and hugged him around the waist. “When you’re ready, we’ve got the cart hitched.”

Cullen chuckled and wrapped his right arm around Georgie, soaking in the child’s happiness. There was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be right now. “How did you know I’m coming?”

Georgie leaned back, gave him a wink, and rushed back outside, closing the door.

Cullen watched Ev change the pillow case on the end of the chiropractic pad and heft the pad back onto the hooks. He’d never seen such grace on a battlefield.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You’re welcome.” She blushed prettily and busied herself organizing her shelves.

What else could he say? He had all day to figure it out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Origins, Gorim tells the noble dwarf Hero that he’d hurt his leg and it healed crooked. As for what else he says, we’ll address that later.
> 
> I’m not the only person I know to have the tendon slip out of the narrow groove between shoulder and elbow—the real pain and swelling happen during and after the chiropractor slips it back in place. I love ice packs, ibuprofen, and people willing to carry my laundry basket for me.


	9. Precocious Prince

A group of guards huddled around an announcement posted on the front of the stables near the sparring ring. Casually perched on a bench at the edge of the garden, Sam surreptitiously watched and waited for them to disperse.

Once the courtyard cleared, he strolled over to look at the parchment. He stared intently at the squiggles of ink, like they would make sense if he just focused enough. He bet Georgeanne could decipher it—even servants around here knew how to read—but she was now as inaccessible to him as the writing posted on the stable’s wall.

Light, stealthy footfalls approached from the keep and Sam smiled. Someone small was trying to sneak up on him.

He turned while Prince Duncan was still several yards off.

“Good morning, Your Highness.”

The kid scowled, but quickly regained his composure and nonchalantly joined Sam.

“I could read it to you, if you like,” the Prince said airily.

“Could you?” Sam couldn’t keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Yes, it’s a roster of matches for the hand-to-hand tournament, first day of Kingsway, the ninth month.”

“I know the months of the year,” Sam chuckled. “I grew up on a farm.”

“You don’t seem scared,” the Prince blurted out.

Sam cocked his head and raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Sera said you were timid,” Duncan raised his chin and met his eye in challenge.

“Yeah, kid,” Sam said with a cheeky grin, “if a golden-haired goddess shield bashed you into the dirt and surrounded you with a hundred sixty-seven guards, and tossed you into a damp and dirty dungeon, you’d be nervous, too.”

The Prince pondered that a moment. “I could help you.”

“Your Highness?”

“I could help you read. I speak and write three languages.”

“But, you’re just a child.”

Duncan laughed. “I’m second in line for the throne and people are always trying to kill us. Every skill I learn is another weapon.” It sounded like the Prince was reciting a lesson, like when Ma made him recite the months and holidays, or Da asked him to rattle off the price list for market.

Sam doubted Duncan really understood what it would mean if those archers had hit the King instead of the Commander. If the Queen had been killed, and the Princess’ Enchanter friend kidnapped.

“I’ll teach you the alphabet and how to write your name, if you get me one of Stella’s Tethras novels.”

Ah, Prince Duncan was looking for an ally, one old enough to get him naughty literature. It sounded like fun—and another way to get thrown back in the dungeon. Being the fiery Princess’ shadow was one thing; befriending her impressionable younger brother was something else.

“You’re what, seven?”

“Yes.”

Sam crossed his arms. “Really?”

“Six-and-a-half—that’s almost seven!”

“Very well, Your Highness,” Sam spit in his right hand and held it out, just he’d done with his brothers as a kid, “I accept your offer.”

Surprised joy flashed across the boy’s face. He spit in his own hand and they shook on it.

“That’s gross,” Duncan giggled.

“Yeah,” Sam said, “better wash up or we’ll get drool all over your books.”


	10. Over the river and through the woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Characters discuss a past rape.
> 
> Why this chapter title? Because “Away from the stream and through the plains, a mile off the road,” doesn’t have the same ring to it. Unless you’ve read Stella and Rollie’s story, [Enchant My Heart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637895/chapters/12983524).
> 
> But this is Ev and Cullen’s story:

 

“Gorim, don’t you dare,” Ev said sternly under her breath.

“What?” her merchant friend asked with excess innocence and patted the neck of his sturdy workhorse plodding at his side.

“That smirk. Don’t go poking at Cullen.”

Gorim grinned. “A bit ‘o teasing wouldn’t hurt him, my dear Healer. His expression is entirely too serious, except with our Georgie, of course.”

Cullen was down on one knee, side-by-side with her young assistant, smiling. He listened very intently as Georgie showed him the different blade angles for harvesting elfroot and embrium, and described how the cut, time of day, and change of seasons made each potion unique.

“There’s Stella’s swimming spot,” Ev ignored Gorim’s efforts to get her to talk about Cullen. “We should turn east and leave the road now.”

“C’mon!” Georgie jumped up, pulling Cullen along. “Just a mile to Gran’s place.”

Georgie sprinted back to the cart to deposit a handful of elfroot in Evelyn’s basket and then ran ahead, laughing. Cullen flashed Ev a grin before turning to follow.

Blood humming, she was so focused on watching Cullen’s purposeful stride, she didn’t mind her own steps, and Gorim took hold of her elbow to keep her from stepping in a fennec hole.

“Mind your step, Ev,” he said roughly, and she scowled at him.

“Why are you grumpy, all of a sudden?”

He shrugged and dropped her arm.

“Gorim,” she said haughtily, “if you’re mad at me, I deserve to know why.”

“I’m not,” he said tersely, avoiding her gaze.

“Then . . . ?”

He sighed. “It’s stupid. Forget it.”

Tense silence grew between them until he relented.

“I told Cullen I’d proposed to you.”

She blinked at him in shock. “You . . . _why_?”

It had been years ago, after his Surfacer wife had died of a bacterial infection that resisted both Ev’s herbs and her magic. After a month of mourning, Gorim’s son had run off to join the Inquisition, and Gorim had asked the Healer for her hand. She’d politely declined what seemed a marriage of convenience, they’d remained good friends, and it’d never occurred to her that he might actually be smitten with her.

“He assumed we were . . .” he shrugged again, this time having the decency to look sheepish.

Irritation grew within her. _Their nerve._

“Both of you,” she admonished him, “talking about me without my input. You had no right—” she sputtered, looking for words.

“To assume you needed any man?” he offered. Ev said it often enough. Gran had drummed the idea of independence into the very soul of each of her children.

“ _Exactly_ ,” Ev huffed.

He shook his head in resignation. “Ev, luv, we weren’t bartering for you. He . . . wanted to know more about you because he cares.”

Her irritation whisked away as quickly as it had flared.

“I’m sorry, Gorim,” she gave him an apologetic smile. “I jumped to conclusions.”

He nodded and they continued the walk in silence, with only the plod of the horse’s hooves and creak of the wagon wheels echoing in her ears as she pondered his last statement.

They’d just met—under intense circumstances. Could Cullen care for her? Did he?

A fragile seed of hope planted itself within her.

-

Cullen’s cheeks felt overly warm from the sun. He was probably sunburned, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a morning so much, or just walked for the pure enjoyment of walking. Yes, they’d “worked” by gathering herbs, but Georgie’s enthusiasm made it feel like they weren’t working at all.

They approached a small wood cottage surrounded by an expanse of green Fereldan plains. A woman in a summer dress and a large-brimmed sunhat bent over vegetable gardens in front.

“Gran!” Georgie ran ahead and plunged into her embrace.

On their walk, Cullen had asked, “What’s your Gran’s name?” and Georgie had laughed.

“No one knows. It’s her only secret.”

Now Gran’s delighted laughter rang like clear bells, a song sweeter than any bard song he’d ever heard. She gave the child a noisy smooch on the cheek and looked up to greet her other visitors.

“Welcome,” she sang out like a young maiden, yet her clean and bright face was heavily wrinkled with enough lines to tell the story of more than four generations. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Gran settled them at the table—Ev sat beside Cullen on a narrow bench, Gorim sat across—in her two-room cabin and bustled about serving fresh fruit, vegetables, bread, cheese, and dried meat. It was more generous than what Cullen had helped himself to at the fortress for breakfast.

Georgie chattered like a magpie and Gran bantered right back, the gravely voice and the fair blending in a wave of beauty that smote his heart. It had to be magic.

“Is she a mage?” he leaned to whisper in Ev’s ear.

“No,” she whispered back, her damp breath deliciously hot on his cheek. “Just beautiful.”

When she straightened, she kept her left arm pressed against the side of his right. He imagined he could feel her blood pump in rhythm with his own.

Georgie brought Cullen a mug of rich broth from the hearth and then sat next to Gorim. Gran took her place at the head of the table and sang a prayer to the Maker in thanks for fine foods and fair friends. Then they all dug in.

It was just five of them, but they made enough noise for twenty. There was much laughter, and it seemed common for anyone to spontaneously burst into song at Gran’s table. Cullen found himself flowing right along with them. The last time he’d enjoyed a meal so much was  . . . he set his mug down.

As a child at home? That couldn’t possibly be. Surely . . . What rut had he pushed himself into, where, even with royal banquets and Inquisition parties celebrating saving the world, he’d, what? Not bothered to appreciate food? Make friends? What kind of arse was he?

“Hey,” Ev asked with quiet concern while everyone else chatted on. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathed out and smiled. “Mind just wandered.” He took her hand under the table in a reassuring squeeze. His heart leapt when she squeezed back.

Ev turned to ask Georgie something, but Cullen didn’t hear. He just watched her.

An itch settled between his shoulder blades and he looked to the head of the table. Gran pinned him with a knowing smile that made him blush under his sunburn.

“Well,” Gran rose, “it sounds like you had a very productive morning. Let’s wash up and get the vegetables harvested, so you can get home before dark.”

“I’ll wash up,” Cullen offered.

“We’ll dry,” Georgie chimed in. “Gorim and I know where everything goes.”

The dwarf nodded and started clearing plates.

Ev slowly rose to her feet, her fingers seeming reluctant to release his own. Excitement bubbled in his belly. Maybe they could talk on the way home, make arrangements for a stroll together tomorrow after her workday.

-

Ev slid her hand from Cullen’s and felt instantly cold, despite the summer heat in the small cabin. She followed Gran out to the front gardens.

“He’s very nice,” Gran said without preamble as soon as the door closed. “You’ve chosen well.”

“I—”

Gran gave her a stern look and Ev stopped her protest. There was no bullshitting Gran.

“He’ll leave by month’s end, and I don’t know if I can handle that. Maybe it’s best we not start in the first place.”

“It’s already begun,” Gran wrapped an arm around her waist. “Precious child—”

Ev choked out a wry sniffle, “I’m old enough to have grandchildren of my own.”

“That’s not the point, luv. And it’s not why you pause.”

Ev stiffened. Surely Gran wasn’t going to bring up the Templars now. Yet, she did.

“It’s been more than a lifetime. They are dead and you live. It’s time to live.”

“You’re the one who taught me we carry certain scars with us forever,” Ev stared unseeing at the horizon. “But I know it from personal experience as well.

“I still hear them, feel them, in my head, in—in me. They violate my womb and they violate my magic, and, despite their deaths, I feel and remember the exact nature of each man’s life force.”

“Evelyn, their blood is not on your hands. They lived when they left you.”

 “Maybe it would have been better if I’d killed them myself.” She turned to face Gran.

“We’ve got carrots and strawberries to pull,” she said with forced cheer. “I promised Stella plenty of each.”

After twenty minutes of harvesting and weeding, chatting about everything and nothing at all, Ev felt her happiness from lunch creep back. It was a lovely summer day to be with Gran. Living was good.

-

Cullen helped Gorim hitch the horse to the cart and patted the beast’s velvety nose. She nuzzled against his shoulder.

“We take turns riding on the way back,” Gorim said. “You and Ev can go first.”

“Cullen,” Gran pulled him down into a hug, “thank you for coming.”

“Your home is beautiful, Gran,” he inhaled her sweet smell of strawberries and wild flowers and tucked the memory deep in his heart. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

“Remember,” she gave him an extra squeeze and whispered in his ear, “There is more to life than what we assume.”

He leaned back with a confused smile. She kissed his cheek with lips soft as a pink rose petal and held her palm to his face another moment before moving on to hug the others goodbye.

Cullen climbed up onto the driver’s bench of the cart and offered Ev a hand up to sit by him.

“Your cheeks are sunburned,” she said, draping her light shawl over their heads to shelter their arms and the back of their necks. “When we get to the clinic, come in and get an aloe salve.”

Gorim clicked his tongue and led the horse on foot.

The journey back was quieter, but it was a contented quiet. For the first mile, he rode with Ev and held her hand. When they reached the road by the stream, Cullen offered his place to Georgie, who blinked sleepily, then nodded in agreement.

“I’m good for a while yet,” Gorim said.

Cullen helped Georgie into the cart and soon Ev and the towheaded child slept leaning on each other under the shawl.

The men walked on in companionable silence with the steady clop of the horse’s hooves and soft creak of the wagon’s wheels. They spoke only once more before they reached Denerim.

“If you break her heart, I’ll kill you and she’ll never know,” Gorim said casually.

Cullen chuckled. “Agreed.”


	11. Just a kiss

The sounds of Denerim woke Ev before they reached the gates. She snuggled Georgie tighter against her side and admired the way Cullen and Gorim walked together. Despite their commoner clothes and plain scabbards, no one with half a brain would mistake them for anyone other than seasoned veterans.

“I can take Georgie,” Cullen offered when they pulled in front of the clinic. She eased Georgie into Cullen’s arms while Gorim unlocked the door. Cullen tucked the child into bed, and Ev and Gorim unloaded the herbs and food onto the table in the corner.

“See you tomorrow,” Gorim said, and led the horse off toward his home down the lane.

Ev closed the door, feeling Cullen’s intent gaze as she washed her hands and retrieved a little glass bottle of clear aloe. She removed the cork stopper.

“This should sooth the burning enough for you to sleep,” she said, rubbing some aloe between her fingers and reaching toward his face.

She paused, eyes wide as she realized her mistake. Maker, she was going to apply the salve to his cheeks like he was a toddler. She should have just handed the bottle over and sent him on his way.

Laughter danced in his amber eyes and the edges of his lips twitched.

“Please,” he said quietly enough not to wake the sleeping child, “do continue.”

She cleared her throat and smiled sheepishly. “Sorry, I sometimes forget to let other people take care of themselves.”

“Please,” he whispered. It was the most seductive plea she’d ever heard.

She gently administered the aloe across his cheekbones, struggling not to tremble when he sighed her name, “Ev,” in relief and closed his eyes, leaning into her hand.

He reached up to hold her hand against his cheek and opened his eyes.

She couldn’t blink. She couldn’t close her lips. She wasn’t sure if she was even breathing. Time stood still while her heart hammered with a stampede of want. Surely he could feel her runaway pulse in his fingertips.

His grip tightened an infinitesimal bit, but he didn’t draw any closer. He waited for her.

She leaned forward and kissed him.

Oh, it was sunshine and wildfire, a deep burning hearth of power to kiss Cullen. His soft lips moved in precise, muscular ways around hers, like he followed her lead in a stirring dance. She opened her mouth and he met her tongue with his own.

Left hand still clutching the open aloe bottle, she bent her elbow to keep it upright as she leaned in closer, running her right hand up into his blond curls. She groaned and angled the kiss deeper, reveling in the feel of his hands sliding down her ribs to set on her waist and drift her flush against his throbbing erection.

She wiggled her pelvis against him and felt a triumphant rush when he groaned in response.

He eased back.

“Can I see you tomorrow?”

“ _Yes_ ,” she whispered breathily, not understanding the question, her brain answering another.

He grinned and slid back further and she almost toppled over.

“I think you think I asked something else.” He laughed silently. “But we’re not exactly alone.”

Ev blinked and flushed. “ _Oh!_ ” Georgie was sleeping in the only bed and she’d nearly jumped Cullen like a wild beast.

He took the open bottle from her hand, corked it, and placed a chaste kiss on her mouth.

“Goodnight, Ev.”

He took the aloe and closed the door behind him.

Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough.


	12. Quill and blade

Sam woke at dawn, the alphabet song pounding away in his head. Duncan had made him sing it twenty-six times yesterday, even though Sam had it memorized after the third repeat.

“Trade Tongue should be easy,” Duncan had said. “You already speak it and there’re only twenty-six letters.” He looked up hopefully. “Don’t suppose you speak any Elvish? I’m supposed to conjugate every form of ‘to play’ for tomorrow’s lessons.”

Sam laughed, “I don’t even know what the word ‘conjugate’ means, Your Highness.”

They’d laughed a lot. The Prince seemed to enjoy Sam’s company as much as Sam appreciated his. After a month of grim uncertainty, surrounded by murderous adults, it was a lovely respite.

He rolled to his side and reached for the piece of parchment he’d dropped on his pillow when he’d finally dozed off.

With an index finger, he traced the three letters centered at the top, S-A-M. He whispered them aloud.

“That’s my name. That’s me.”

It was surreal. If he learned nothing else in his life, he’d die content. He could spell his name, recognize it in writing—if someone printed it clearly—and tell others how to spell it.

Below his name were all twenty-six letters of the common, or Trade, tongue. He traced and named each letter aloud, his mind swimming with possibility. Words were like magic.

He closed his eyes and lay on his back, remembering some of his favorite parts of yesterday.

“S is for Sam! For Sera!” Duncan shouted, jumping up on the desk and waving his quill like a rapier. “Solis, Solace, Summerday, Soul's Day, Satinalia, serpent, strawberries, Sarsaparilla!”

“Sarsaparilla?!” Sam applauded. “How do you spell that?”

“No idea,” Duncan said, jumping down to the floor with aplomb. “But it’s delicious.”

Yesterday had been heaven.

Sam got up and dressed. He folded his precious square of parchment and tucked it in the inner pocket of his jerkin before heading down to the dining room.

The Queen and Princess sat together at the far end of the long dining table, deep in conversation.

“Hey, Sam!” Prince Duncan greeted him with a shining smile from the near end of the table. “I’ve got loads to read before today’s lessons. Maybe we could sit together in my study.”

“Your Highness,” Sam bowed to the Prince and glanced toward the Princess, who nodded and waved him off absently. “I’m at your disposal.”

Sam filled his plate from the side buffet: pancakes, and muffins, and sausage, and bacon, and eggs, and fruit. Small portions of each, but more than twice as much as he’d been able to eat a month ago, when half a ration had filled his belly uncomfortably full his first night out with the mercenaries.

Thirty minutes later, he and Duncan sat side-by-side at the Princes’ long writing desk. They were quieter than yesterday, but just as happy. Duncan leaned over a thick elvish tome, occasionally jotting a note on a piece of parchment in clear, flowing script.

With less finesse, Sam practiced printing the common tongue letters, smalls and capitals; then his name; then a list of proper names Duncan had written out for him: King Alistair, Queen Margaret, Princess Sera, Prince Duncan, Enchanter Stella, Ser Rollie, Commander Cullen.

“How do you spell ‘Messere?’” Sam had asked when Duncan handed him the list. Duncan took the list back, crossed out “Ser” and wrote “Messere” above it.

By each name, the Prince had drawn a little symbol to indicate which name belonged to which person: A crown for the King, crossed blades for the Queen, a sword and shield for the Princess, a book for himself, a potion bottle for the Enchanter, a fat and fluffy sheep for Messere Rollie, and, for the Commander, a scrawny lion with a huge mane.

The drawings amazed Sam just as much as the boy’s flowing script: with minimal lines and a few deft strokes of his quill, the Prince had perfectly captured the essence of each person in a miniature piece of art. It was finer than at least half the paintings Sam had seen hanging on the fortress walls, but Duncan had casually handed it over like it was no big deal.

After a while, Sam set his quill down and massaged his stiff, sore fingers. Yesterday, he’d thought his rough hands sufficiently strong from the plow and other chores, not realizing until this morning that writing required an even more refined strength. Duncan assured him it would get easier, his printing less sloppy with practice.

He didn’t care how hard it was. Sam was thrilled to be reading—and writing. Duncan didn’t have time today, but he said he had some picture books and they could read a real story together tomorrow.

“Then you can practice writing common nouns.”

“Common nouns?”

“Never mind. You’ve enough on your plate for today.”

Sam smiled at the memory, inhaled the summer breeze wafting in through the open window. He hadn’t felt such peace since he’d left home.

“When did you know?”

He turned to find the Prince watching him. “Pardon?”

“When did you know you were a boy?”

Sam wanted to laugh, but carefully schooled his face instead. The kid was curious—there was nothing wrong with that—and a lot more polite than any adults who’d thought it their business to figure out if his bits matched their assumptions.

“Why?” he answered conversationally. “When did you know you were a boy?”

Duncan sputtered, “I’ve always known.”

“Why would it be any different for me?” Sam asked politely, leaving the conversation open for Duncan to ask further questions.

“Sorry.” Duncan crumpled a piece of parchment in his fist and tossed it in the rubbish bin. “Please don’t tell my sister. She’d yell at me for an hour.”

“She looks after you. It’s what family does.”

“My sister’s full of herself,” Duncan grumbled, nose wrinkled in disgust.

“She must be a woman of confidence,” Sam said. “If she appears weak, so does Ferelden.”

Duncan looked pensive. “I’ve never thought about it that way before.”

“Even though you know people will always want to kill you, just because of who you were born to be?”

“I’m _six_!”

“Almost seven,” Sam responded cheerfully.

“I don’t really think about it,” Duncan groused. “And you’re starting to sound like my tutors.”

“I’m not sorry, Your Highness.”

That made the kid giggle.

“Good. You’re nowhere near as boring as they are. They’re always apologizing when _I_ do something. And—” he hesitated a moment.

“They’re all scared of me.” He chanced a glance at Sam before looking away. “You’re not scared of me.”

He sounded lonely, wistful.

Sam had only been out of his cell three days, but he had seen enough to know the Prince watched from the safety of the battlements while other kids played in the market streets. There were no sounds of young children running around the fortress. Duncan’s only friend was his sister, ten years his senior, who was busy being groomed to take her parents’ place on the throne.

“You terrify me, Your Highness,” Sam said with mock seriousness and Duncan dissolved into giggles again. The Prince picked up his quill and resumed writing.

“I’m glad Sera didn’t kill you,” he said with the blithe innocence only possible in those under age ten.

Sam swallowed a rock that had lodged its way into his throat.

“Me, too.”

They worked together in silence for about twenty minutes before Princess Sera found them.

“Sam, follow me to the ring,” she directed, walking off without waiting to see if he complied. “If you’re going to wear those blades, you must learn how to use them.”

“Better you than me,” Duncan muttered under his breath and continued writing.

Sam scurried after the Princess. “I know how to use them. My brother—”

“No rogue is as good as the Herald. You must train with her.”

He paused, then hurried to catch up, excitement coursing through every nerve. “The Her—the Herald of Andraste?! Train with the Queen?”

“Yes,” she said regally, but her lips twitched in amusement. “Now be quiet and pay attention.”


	13. The Pearl

Surrounded by cheering guards, Cullen watched the Queen and Princess spar in the ring. Margie used her dual blades, Sera her sword and shield. All other matches had involved wooden practice blades.

Officially, the King and Queen were undefeated by anyone but each other, but Cullen thought he’d seen three potential victories against her parents today that the Princess had purposely flubbed. She’d pulverized everyone else.

Young as she was, if Princess Sera wasn’t heir to the throne, Cullen would steal her away to train Inquisition recruits.

“Enjoying your holiday?” The King joined Cullen and leaned on the fence, his casual pose contrary to his edgy inquiry.

Cullen hadn’t been this uncomfortable since Lady Kate and Alistair had found him imprisoned by a desire demon in Kinloch Hold. None of the horrors in Kirkwall or during the Inquisition compared to this dread. He hoped formality would get them through it.

“Your hospitality has been most gracious, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, come off it, Rutherford, you’re as uncomfortable as a lone lion facing an angry horde of Bereskarn.”Alistair’s tone became more friendly, his expression open for honest dialogue.

Maybe not too honest. Even if Cullen had been interested in being Alistair’s friend—an unfathomable idea—he didn’t want to overstep his bounds.

“Perhaps I need more practice relaxing. My duties usually claim my full attention.”

He flinched. What a stupid thing to say to the _King_ , a man whose responsibilities far outweighed his own; not only for Ferelden’s sovereignty, but also as one of the few remaining Grey Wardens in Thedas, perhaps the only one with enough experience to successfully slay an archdemon. With the Hero, Alistair had defeated the Fifth Blight and saved Ferelden from the paranoid civil war of Teyrn Loghain.

“Love doesn’t care how focused you are on something else,” Alistair said calmly. “It clubs you on the head anyway.”

Maker, why did he have to be so perceptive?

“Whatever . . . admiration I once held at Skyhold is no longer an issue.”

“I know,” Alistair said lightly, “Otherwise, my wife would never find your body.”

Cullen snorted a laugh of surprise.

The Queen left the ring and paused to converse with an eager young man Cullen didn’t recognize from earlier visits. Yet there was something familiar about his brown hair, the way he tiled his head to listen, held his hand on his pommel.

Alistair straightened. “You’re a good friend to Ferelden, Cullen. Our people are better off due to your efforts. I’m glad you accepted my invitation.”

Cullen watched Alistair join Margie and head inside. He pondered this curious new sense of ease he felt.

He’d never be Alistair’s favorite person—nor would Alistair be his—but they’d come to some kind of understanding. Not friends, but perhaps friends-of-friends. It had only taken a Blight, an Inquisition, and twenty-eight years to get there.

After a word with Guard Captain Jane, a fierce red-headed woman who looked almost as young as the Princess herself, Sera joined him.

“You hesitate before you feign left,” Cullen said baldly, mentally kicking himself for his lack of conversational finesse.

“Not always,” the Princess answered casually and leaned on the fence to watch the next match.

“You—” realization dawned. “You give your parents a chance to beat you.”

“Good day, Commander.” She straightened and turned to leave.

“Sera, wait.” He had enough wits left not to touch her, but his pleading tone was enough to make her pause.

“If they appear weak . . .”

“As the future monarch of Ferelden, I promise you that you don’t want to give anyone that impression.”

She could glare into his soul even better than Margie. He’d not seen a look like that since he’d stupidly told the Herald he “wouldn’t allow” her to meet Alexius at Redcliffe Castle.

“As the best warrior this side of the Frostbacks,” the Princess continued, aloof, “I promise you that if you endanger my parents, Cullen, I will kill you myself.”

With regal carriage, Sera returned to the keep.

He sighed. It seemed his fate to always be at odds with a Theirin.

He hadn’t intended to criticize: Cullen understood that people were more important than rules, more valuable than staunch, rigid authority. He just tended to quote the rules before thinking things through. How else did one guard against the chaos?

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. His bare fingers sliding along his new gold chain brought another possibility to mind.

Perhaps if he volunteered elsewhere for the afternoon, he wouldn’t be such an arse. He could be a help, not hindrance.

Just when he made up his mind to go to Ev’s clinic, Ser Rollie came up and leaned his back and elbows on the fence, eyeing him speculatively.

“The Queen has a lead on those archers and is looking for a volunteer to follow it up. With your new wardrobe, no one should recognize you. How are you at subterfuge?”

“I can manage,” Cullen lied. He knew he was shit at subterfuge, but he thought he could manage it for something so important. He’d just pretend he was someone else. “What do you need me to do?”

Rollie raised a skeptical eyebrow, but let Cullen’s false bravado slide without challenge.

“Well, then, here’s what we know . . .”

-

_Andraste, preserve me._

Cullen approached the public entry of The Pearl, Denerim’s classiest brothel—if a brothel could be considered classy. If he’d known where Ser Rollie was going to send him, he’d have declined immediately, but once he’d offered help, he couldn’t very well tell Rollie no.

One thought of comfort kept him going: no one would recognize him; he’d never in his life had relations with a woman of ill repute, much less been anywhere near The Pearl.

The lead, Rollie had explained, was a Tevinter holed up in an elite suite at The Pearl. Margie suspected his employer an Altus who’d invited Princess Sera to his son’s summer soiree. When Queen Margaret sent the formal “We regret we will not be able to attend” RSVP, the audacious arse started sending letters directly to the Princess, who refused to touch them.

“Rumor in Minrathous,” Rollie said, “is this nit considers his son the next king of Ferelden. Magister Pavus is disgusted.” Rollie’s voice hardened, “He’s confirmed this Altus as the source of the mage-binding stones found on the mercenaries who went after Stella.”

Just a few days prior to Cullen’s arrival, the Princess and Enchanter had killed five intruders intent on kidnapping Rollie’s fiancé as leverage against Sera. A sixth had been captured alive, and was now a companion of the Princess. Cullen was unclear on the exact relationship, and Rollie didn’t elaborate.

Dorian was poised to pounce on the Altus, but waited for Margie’s signal: They were certain he used sending crystals to communicate, and didn’t want to spook the agent in Denerim into running.

All Cullen had to do was walk in there, give the proprietor a bag full of gold, and request he be uninterrupted in an upstairs room for an hour before she sent in one of her . . . staff. In that hour, he should be able to hear enough through the thin wall to confirm the origin and nature of The Pearl’s wealthiest “guest,” and, if he was alone, apprehend him and haul him off to the fortress for questioning.

Alone. With no shield, and only a jerkin for armor. If this Tevinter was a mage . . . Cullen hadn’t called on his Templar talents for a while, but he was fairly certain he could handle a basic spell purge, even without Lyrium.

“You can do this, Rutherford,” he mumbled to himself as he turned the doorknob. “You’re just requesting a private room for an hour.”

He pulled the brothel door open to find the last person he’d expected.

“Ev! What are you doing here?”

She huffed out an amused snort.

“None of your business,” she answered with polite formality. “Good day.”

As she made to walk past him, he grabbed her arm.

Quicker than lightning, he found himself slammed against the wall, a short blade at his throat.

“No one touches me without my consent,” she growled in his face, all laughter gone, eyes burning with white-hot anger.

“Of course, Evelyn,” he raised his hands in the air. “I’m sorry.”

She stepped back several paces. When he didn’t follow, she slid her knife back into her boot and whirled out the door.

“Fucking Templars,” said a scantily clad elf woman who sat by the fire. “They’ll never leave her alone.”

“Hey, asshole,” her human friend said, “We like the Healer and don’t like people pestering her. You’ll get no services here.”

Face red, Cullen rushed back out into the street. He’d known going to the brothel was a bad idea. He hadn’t known it would be a complete disaster. Not only had he ruined his chance to help investigate the assassination plot against the royal family, he’d maltreated Evelyn and she’d probably never want to see him again.

What did it say about him that the latter loss bothered him more?


	14. I’m sorry

Ev’s day had been great until Cullen proved himself a presumptuous ass.

She’d woken with the exhilarating sensation of his lips still tingling across her mouth.

After breakfast, she’d sent Georgie to deliver herbs to Stella, locked up, and headed for The Pearl to deliver little purple pouches of premixed herbs for controlling the ladies’ courses. She’d taken a private moment with every woman, child, and man of the household—those seen, and those who customers never see—making sure each person was well in mind and body. The cook’s heart murmur was back; with a soft touch of her hand, Ev’s power flowed through the patient, building up the atrophied flesh around the valves and normalizing the muscle’s pace.

It had been a very good, rewarding morning.

Until she tried to leave.

“What are you doing here?” he’d asked in surprise, and she’d laughed. Cullen clearly had never visited a brothel or learned about patient confidentiality.  You were supposed to pretend you didn’t know people when you saw them. She was curious how he’d managed to survive Orlesian politics during the Inquisition.

Then he’d grabbed her.

As she walked the streets of Denerim alone, disappointment settled in her stomach like a lump of undercooked cake. She had hoped . . .

Forget what she had hoped. She’d thought Cullen unafraid of an intelligent woman in control of her own body. She’d been wrong.

Her anger had dissipated as soon as the door closed between them. The disappointment, however, clung to her, and she knew of no spell or medicine that would pry it loose.

Ev was nearly home.

She paused to watch an overly thin man with jet black hair and friendly smile talk with Gorim in front of her locked clinic door. He held one hand, wrapped in a dishcloth, in the palm of his other.

Gorim gestured down the lane, toward another clinic. One that served Templars.

The patient was in civilian dress, but contained the deep, dark well of Templar power that seemed to suck all light into itself. She could feel it from where she stood. She’d have noticed sooner, if she had not been preoccupied. Lyrium hummed through his veins; he’d had a draft sometime in the last twenty-four hours, possibly from Surgeon Maeve on the other side of Denerim. Maeve had no magical talents, but stitched the swiftest and tidiest sutures in Denerim, and ran one of the clinics that dispensed drafts to former Templars.

It was unlikely he was in the new Order that served Grand Enchanter Vivienne’s Circle in Val Royeaux. Madame de Fer had no delegation in Denerim this month, and her Templars were never allowed out of uniform. He was probably retired and on a pension; after declaring all mages free, Divine Victoria had been generous to the few Templars who had survived the war.

All these thoughts passed through her mind before she realized what was missing: fear.

_That’s curious. My hands are steady._

She put on her professional smile and approached Gorim and the Templar.

“Good day,” she said, startling Gorim. “How can we help you?”

“Healer Evelyn,” the Templar bowed. “My name is Anderson Fields. Surgeon Maeve speaks highly of you and recommended I see you about an infected cut.” He lifted his wrapped hand in evidence.

“Please, come in,” she unlocked the door. “Gorim and I would be happy to assist you.”

Gorim led the patient to the chair next to the exam table.

“Nicked a finger cutting carrots a few days ago,” Anderson said, unwrapping the towel. “It didn’t bleed much and I cleaned it right away, but it was tender from the start, and this morning I woke with it this swollen mess of puss. The cut split further open.” He looked up at her hopefully, “Surgeon Maeve said magic sometimes works where medicine will not.”

“Sometimes a combination of magic and herbs can defeat infection, but I can’t guarantee it will work. Some people are resistant; some illnesses are resistant.”

He pondered that and nodded thoughtfully.

“Would you like me to try?”

“Please.”

“I’d like to touch your throat to check your pulse.”

He nodded again and sat up straight, his breath becoming more shallow as she neared him. His heart was strong and pumped in a healthy rhythm, but there was something else she felt coursing through veins: the life force of little, fast-spawning organisms.

 _Fuck._ Another two days and his vital organs would succumb to the infection.

She stepped back. “I’m going to thoroughly clean the injury, then close the wound and apply a salve.”

He eyed the sterile needles and sutures on the table. “Can you . . . can you seal it, instead of stitches?” he asked hopefully.

“I can try. Are you resistant to magic?”

“I don’t know . . . I’m . . . I was . . .” His eyes welled up with apology and nervousness.

“It’s okay. Many of my patients are magic-resistant. If infection has spread, do I have your permission to pursue it with magic?”

If not, healing his hand wouldn’t keep him from dying.

He sighed in relief. “Yes.”

Gorim handed the patient a dowel. “You’re going to want to bite on this. The first part’s the most uncomfortable.”

While Ev and Gorim tended to the patient, Georgie returned from the fortress and took the soiled dishtowel back to the laundry area to burn it in a steel bin.

The injury was easier to treat than Ev thought it would be: It rinsed clean her first attempt, the salve immediately soaked into the skin, and his life force readily accepted the power she flowed through him to battle the bacteria. Lastly, she held her hand over the wound to mold the tissue via sheer will, leaving a shiny soft new spot of skin.

“Excellent,” she said, while he stared in mute amazement. “Now, show me the antibiotic Surgeon Maeve prescribed.”

He pulled a bottle from his pocket.

“That’s good,” she pulled another bottle from her shelves, “but double the dose and supplement it with two tablespoons of this, twice daily. Lyrium lessens its effectiveness. Lyrium also strengthens the bacteria. If it swells again or you spike a fever, come pound on my door right away, day or night.”

“Thank you,” he put the vial in his other pocket. “Sorry I didn’t tell you who—what I was. I’m not a Templar anymore; I just can’t go without the draft.”

“I understand your hesitation,” she said kindly, “but be sure to tell any healer or surgeon that you’re taking Lyrium, so they can give you proper care. If they don’t know how to deal with it, or can’t be respectful, find a different provider.”

Anderson Fields gave her a deep bow and left five gold pieces on the table on his way out.

“Generous,” Gorim chuckled. “You’ve enamored another one, Ev. He’ll be disappointed when he realizes he’s not first in line.”

“I’m not going to see him again anyway.”

Gorim’s smile faded. “Wait—are you talking about Cullen now? What, did you two fight?”

“Not precisely,” she busied herself sterilizing the steel wash basin.

“Ev, luv—”

“It’s done, Gorim. I’ll let you get back to your shop.”

She felt him watch her for a minute in silence while she fussed more than necessary with the equipment. Then he left, shutting the door gently.

Ev sighed and leaned on the table. She wasn’t used to emotional turmoil. She had her routine, her friends. It was patients who worried, not her. On the rare occasion she lost a patient, it was because no one could have done anything; it was sad, but didn’t bother her much.

She was who she was. She considered her life simple. Her patients included prostitutes, mages, dwarves, and, now, Templars. She didn’t serve the prim, proper, and powerful; with one notable exception, they didn’t need her. Everyone else did—and they cared for her as a _person_ , not just a healer. They didn’t forget her as soon as she was gone.

Cullen. Her lips trembled, but she refused to cry. Cullen wanted her to fit in this little box where you only saved the worthy. Where men took women by the elbow and told them their proper place, in service to the King or sheltering the virgin refugee.

_That’s not who I am._

She shivered. Last night was a close call. If Georgie hadn’t been here, she’d have taken Cullen as her lover, and today would have been an even worse disaster. She hadn’t always slept alone—she’d been scared of Templars, not men in general—but, last night she thought she’d found someone who meant something more. Better to know the truth now, than after she’d become more attached.

The last man she’d taken to bed had been a Grey Warden who’d appeared a few years younger than she, except for the graying at his temples. The Calling had been loud in Jean-Luc’s ears; the taint almost completely consumed his life force and there wasn’t anything she could do to keep the voices at bay. He was too far down the path by the time he’d found her.

She could give him one last night of comfort, though, and she did so gladly. As long as she touched him, held him, was connected to him, the whispers were silent. There were no whispered promises, just peace and shared tenderness.

The next morning, he’d kissed her sweetly and bade her farewell in his soft, rolling Orlesian accent, gently brushing streams of tears from her cheeks with his thumbs.

“Evelyn, ma belle, do not cry for me.”

He slid his hands from hers, the haunted look and tight shoulders returning immediately, mounted his horse, and rode quickly out of Denerim. She stumbled back into the house, locked her door, and cried for two days. Then she got up, washed her face, and re-opened the clinic.

Her noticeable connection with a patient didn’t usually hold beyond a day, or a mile, except this once. A trickle of awareness flowed through her for the next few weeks: Jean-Luc’s anguished life force plowing forcefully toward some dark power to the northwest. Then, one sunny morning, she felt a glowing burst of happy energy in her chest, and he no longer flowed in her heart and mind. She cried again that night; this time, with relief for the kind man who had finally found a hero’s end in the Deep Roads, in the company of dwarves just as dedicated as he.

It hadn’t been love, but they’d understood and respected each other. Had the taint not been so far along—if she could have made life better for him—she would have asked him to marry her.

There was a formal knock on the door.

 _Cullen._ She scowled as her traitorous heart leapt in her chest. She was not going to fall in line with his expectations. She would greet him as a professional and send him on his way.

“It’s open,” she called out, and he came in, looking wretched.

Yes, wretched. He looked drawn and haunted, like he’d witnessed a crime he was powerless to stop. He took a single step over the threshold, but left the door open, the late-afternoon sun illuminating him from behind.

“Ev,” he croaked out, “I’m so sorry.”

The back door closed, startling them both. She’d forgotten Georgie was tending linens out back.

“You kiss and make up,” Georgie said, patting Cullen’s elbow on the way past. “I’m staying at Gorim’s.”

The door closed quietly and there was the sound of a key turning the lock from the outside.


	15. My heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Rape survivor tells her story.

His broken heart quivered. She stood stiffly, her expression more distanced than he’d ever seen it. He’d hurt her, betrayed her trust.

_Andraste, guide me. Free her from my harm._

“Ev, I’m sorry.” He hoped he sounded contrite, not chilly and rehearsed. His insides felt torn in every direction. “I mistreated you. I will leave you in peace.”

He bowed low, and turned for the door, hoping he could make it to his guest room in the fortress before he was reduced to tears.

“Please stay,” her voice was as gentle as the night they’d shared stories over mugs of broth.

He steeled himself and turned to face her.

“What do you know of Circle mages who never lived inside a Circle?”

“Very little.”

“Few do,” Ev shook her head with a wry smile, “though my story isn’t unique.”

Cullen wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but this certainly wasn’t it. She wasn’t going to toss him out or deride him. What did she want him to know?

“Spell purge hurts—it really hurts. Feels like someone rips out your soul, but leaves it attached by a thread so you can still feel the pain.”

He flinched, but she didn’t notice. She continued to speak to the air, eyes unfocused on invisible memories.

“I was eighteen and apprenticing with a surgeon in Denerim during the week, staying at Gran’s on the weekends. Our clinic served Templars, mages, and anyone else who needed help. I’d not paid attention to the whispers of war brewing. After all, what did the Circles have to do with me?

“I did everything right. Studied in the right places, spoke to the right people, never traveled alone at night. I had a knife in my boot and knew how to use it.

“One afternoon, I headed to Gran’s early. A few blocks from the clinic I found a group of Templars I knew, men who had been stationed with my father at the Circle. I’d not seen my father in years, but these men had known me as a child, and recently seen me at the clinic. They knew my name, just as I knew theirs. I would have walked past—patient confidentiality is paramount, and I never speak to a patient outside the clinic unless they speak to me first—but the Lieutenant stepped in front of me.

“‘Captain’s got questions for you, mage,’ he said, and several spell purges hit me from behind, knocking me into his armored chest. He dragged me into the shadowy lane between two buildings, just yards from the busy, sunny street.”

Knees weak with revulsion and fear, Cullen blindly reached for the chair by her table and sank down into it. She turned her steady green eyes toward him.

“‘You’ve kept me waiting two hours,’ he spat in my face. ‘You owe me. Scream and you’re dead.’ He set a guard at the lane’s mouth and his friends held me down in the dirt. ‘Where are your apostate friends?’ he demanded as he lifted my skirts. Of course, I didn’t know any apostates; I worked at a Circle-approved clinic, and I could only blubber out the truth.

“‘We’ll fuck the information out of you,’ he said. Four of them took turns raping me, bruising my arms and thighs, careful not to mess with my face. ‘I get to go again,’ he said, ‘I’ve always wanted to nail this bitch.’ He’d first met me when I was ten, mind you. Then someone came to the end of the lane, and I hoped for a savior. It wasn’t. It was their captain, and he didn’t care.

“‘We’ve a schedule to keep,’ he said, and they all headed for the square, but the guard who hadn’t touched me paused. His name was Justin.

“‘Ser, she’s bleeding.’

“‘Leave it,’ the captain said, and they left.

“I shivered alone for an hour before I remembered I had the power to heal myself. It hurt as much as the forced sex, and I could only make the bruises yellow, not fade completely. I combed my fingers through my hair and, if anyone noticed, no one commented on my dirty dress when I walked into the square. I walked to Gran’s in a daze, arriving just before sunset. I hadn’t planned to tell her, but, as soon as I opened the door and she saw my haunted look, she asked, ‘What is his name?’

“Still stunned, I told her their names, and let her draw me a bath and wash and comb my hair. She burned the dress and sat and held my hand until I fell asleep. When I woke during the night, Gorim held my hand and Gran was out.”

White knuckled, Cullen gripped his knees. “Did she kill them?”

He didn’t know how he knew, but Cullen was certain the sweet old lady he’d lunched with yesterday was perfectly capable of homicide.

“I don’t know. Maybe she had help, maybe she didn’t. She came home at dawn and told me they wouldn’t hurt anyone again. No bodies were found. I feared a witch hunt when a whole squad of Templars was reported absent without leave, but the Crown didn’t open an investigation, and all eyes were on the Circles.

“A year later, you were putting out fires in Kirkwall, and I was sneaking in and out of various clinics and The Pearl, now officially an apostate healer during a war over magic. Denerim was big enough to hide in, especially with Gran and Gorim’s help, and King Alistair’s refusal to hunt mages in his hometown, but it was several years after Divine Victoria’s decree before I felt safe enough to practice in the open again.”

“You said your father was stationed at the Circle.” He shivered. Perhaps he’d known him. Maybe he’d seen him ripped apart by demons.

“Yes. He was a Templar. My mother was a Denerim healer with dispensation to work outside the Tower. My mother loved him, though she did not consent to his presence in her bed. He assumed, and she didn’t stop him, fearful that he would suggest they lock her up, as they had my grandmother and great-grandmother, who both gave birth to Templars’ bastards and raised them in the Circle.”

He hadn’t known. How had he not known? Too easily. At nineteen, he’d followed regulations so well at his first post, he hadn’t paid much mind to the whispers about “inappropriate” relationships, thinking them rare lapses in judgment. He hadn’t thought to consider whether they were consensual, or if the young children in Kinloch Hold had actually been born there.

“She’d considered herself free—until she found herself pregnant with me, and realized she was as trapped in her position here as she would have been in the Tower itself. She had to stay put for regular inspections from her Templar lover, who would eventually make her return to the Tower to give birth and draw my phylactery. The Chantry held her phylactery, and running would have been a death sentence for both of us.

“But my father didn’t want his life to change. He enjoyed having a secret ‘wife’ in Denerim, whom he saw only a few weeks of the year, and agreed to hide my existence—or, at least, not formally report my birth or draw my blood.”

Cullen’s lungs struggled for air. If Ev had been at Kinloch Hold when Uldred turned, would Wynne have saved her, or would she be dead? If the Hero of Ferelden had agreed with Cullen’s demand to purge the Tower . . .

“That was a dozen years before the Blight, when mages were common in cities, and people rarely accused you of being an apostate. He’d hoped for a son he could teach swordplay. Instead, he got me; but, when I was six and he saw a man pawing at me in the market, he bought me my first knife and taught me how to use it. I’ve carried a knife in my boot ever since.”

Cullen couldn’t imagine such a life. “You lived in fear.”

She shrugged. “Not as first. I was scared the first time someone grabbed me, but after that I had my knife and I knew what to avoid. I didn’t know until later that it wasn’t my fault, not until Gran told me.”

“You said she wasn’t a mage. Was she your father’s family?”

“No. She met Mum and me in the market when I was a child. Gran took us under her wing.

“And then, the Blight came. When King Cailan marched to Ostagar, Mum left me with Gran and joined the healers there.”

He knew what came next. The darkspawn horde at Ostagar had slaughtered Cailan and his troops. No one survived, except traitor Loghain’s troops, mages Uldred and Wynne from the Circle, and two Grey Wardens named Katherine Cousland and Alistair Theirin.

His heart wept for Evelyn.

“I begged to go, too—I’d come into my magic and already knew more herblore than most surgeons—but Gran laid a steady hand on my shoulder and told me, ‘War is no place for children. Be at peace with your mother before she leaves.’

“It was the best thing she’s ever told me. I curbed my temper and so my last memories of my mother are happy.”

“And your father?” He dreaded the answer.

“Killed at the Conclave.”

“At the—he wasn’t at Kinloch Hold when Uldred returned?” Nerves clutched Cullen’s stomach again. He was going to have to tell her, and she’d surely kick him out, if not kill him herself.

“He survived the demons’ rampage, but never came to visit me again. He was in the lower levels, with Knight-Commander Greagoir. He supported the Hero’s decision to save all those she could.”

“I didn’t,” he blurted out and hung his head in shame. “I was in a cage with a desire demon for three days. Kate and Alistair found me and I demanded they kill everyone. I was so vile and paranoid afterward, Greagoir sent me away to Kirkwall to learn tolerance—It’s ironic,” he chuckled with no amusement, “the mages of the Free Marches were actually less free than those in Ferelden.”

“That’s not who you are now,” she said softly and he looked up. All he could see in her was compassion. “The Commander of the Inquisition’s forces has saved many over the years, and there are no stories of him terrorizing mages.”

Speechless, he stared at her in wonder.

“Kate?” she asked with a sad smile. “And you asked about ‘Margie’ when you woke from your surgery. Who else holds a piece of your heart?”

“My heart is wholly yours,” he whispered.


	16. Love me

Ev blinked at Cullen, her sadness slipping away.

“My heart is wholly yours,” he said again, louder, rising from his chair. “Evelyn, I love you.”

“Cullen?” Eyes and mouth wide with surprise, she took a step toward him, close enough she had to tilt her head upward to look into his molten amber eyes.

“Yes?”

“I love you, too.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders. He gave an astonished exhale, one side of his mouth quirked sexily as he laid his hands on her hips.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?” she asked against his lips.

“Yes.”

“Then stay.”

She pressed her lips to his. The kiss wasn’t as wild or desperate as last night, but just as deep and hungry. The heat of their blended power could very well scorch and blister her lips, but she didn’t care. She was with Cullen, and she wanted no other ever again.

He wrapped his right arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, leaning her back to lap his tongue deeply within her mouth. She groaned into the kiss and slid both hands into his hair, gripping tightly as her mind spun.

“Cullen,” she sighed out when he moved his mouth and tongue down to taste her jaw line, lap at her throat, nibble along her collar bone.

“How about we get undressed?” he asked with a smile.

“Oh, yes,” she grinned back, then yelped out a laugh when he spun her up into his arms and around in a circle—his strong arms under her buttocks and around her shoulders were the most amazing thing she’d ever felt—before placing her on her feet by the bed.

“Evelyn,” he slowed and looked at her tenderly, tracing a finger from the side of her temple, down her cheek. “I, uh, didn’t think about . . .”

How had she ever doubted him a gentleman?

“No worries,” she gave him a bright smile, “I’ve had my herbs. And, if there was something for you to be concerned about, I’d have noticed it in your life force during the surgery and told you.”

He frowned with confused worry.

“Hey,” she laid a hand to his cheek. “It’s okay. If you want me, I want you. We’re good.”

That sexy smirk was back.

Eyes locked on hers, he took a step back and unbuckled his scabbard, sliding his sword under the bed. She pushed her tongue into an eyetooth, struggling not to beg him to move faster, as she drank in the sight of him. He slowly removed his jerkin and tossed it on the chair at the foot of the bed. He loosened the laces of his linen shirt, but didn’t pull it off, leaving a frustratingly tiny peek of his muscled chest visible.

“Boots?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” flustered, she sat on the edge of the bed so hurriedly that she almost missed and plunked to the floor. He chuckled—that deep, sexy, throaty, make-your-muscles-clench-with-want male laugh unique to him—and she scowled, but he just smirked back and toed off his own boots, kicking them under the bed. She yanked hers off and blindly tossed them after.

She stood again, noticing the distance between them had shrunk a few more inches.

Cullen started to pull his shirt from where it was tucked into his breeches, paused and tilted his head in question. She gripped the waist of her summer dress and nodded. They yanked off their clothes in swift tandem and tossed them on top of his jerkin, eyes immediately locking on each other again.

He was barefoot in his breeches, which did nothing to hide his erection. She felt over-clothed in nothing but her underthings.

All his breath wooshed out. “Maker, Ev. You are beautiful.”

She blushed and looked down at her toes. Sure, she had some pretty curves, but it was overwhelming to have him— _Cullen_ —notice.

He stepped forward, cupping her cheek with his thumb, fingers behind her ear, sliding into the back of her updo. She looked up into his adoring gaze.

“You. Are. Beautiful.”

Her heart and hands grew more bold as he tasted her lips again, one hand still cradling her cheek, his other pulling loose her breast band to let it drift to the floor. She smoothed her palms over his pert nipples, down the planes of his chest and abdomen, over the fresh spot of skin she’d healed the other day, making him gasp with arousal and reply with a thrust of his tongue into her yearning mouth.

His thumb brushed across her cheekbone over and over as he deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue in steady beats to every last inch of her mouth, finding and settling on the sensitive spot inside her cheek that made her quiver with desire. He pulsed against it and she cried out, but wouldn’t pull back, no matter how hard her knees shook and mind whirled. She wanted more.

Without breaking the kiss, his other hand stroked down to her waist, hooking his thumb into the waistband of her smalls. She grappled with his waistband, pulling his breeches and smalls down together, and they stepped out of their last bit of clothes together. However hot and heavy the unbroken kiss, she couldn’t stifle a giggle at the weird angle they had to bend to get out of their clothes.

Cullen’s free hand came up to cup her other cheek, framing her face. He closed his eyes as he concentrated on the kiss. She felt the heat building in her core, and they hadn’t even gotten into bed yet!

She lifted her arms to quickly pluck out the plethora of pins holding her braids, dumping them on the bedside table behind her and swiftly unbraiding her hair to fall loose.

Cullen slid his tongue from her mouth and she whimpered in protest at the loss. He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, “I’ve dreamt of your hair.

“Andraste preserve me,” he slid his hands up along her scalp, “It’s finer than the silk I imagined.”

She huffed out a laugh and drew his hips close, pressing her bare thigh into his hard length. “And if I were bald?”

He grinned. “Then I’d find somewhere else to stroke you.”

He ran his hands over her shoulders and eased her down onto the bed. She scooched up, scattering the pillows, wrapped her arms around his neck, and bent her knees.

“Ah, we’ve plenty of time for that later,” he said, smoothing a calloused hand over her sleek thigh—the texture sent blots of vivid lightning through her. “I’d like to explore first, if I may.”

It was a statement, not a question, and she sighed in content agreement, unable to form words with his moist breath traversing down her throat, her hands drifting loose on his shoulders.

He counted her ribs with a little kiss on each, brushed his thumb around her belly button and down through the curling hair between her legs. When he gave her clitoris a gentle poke, sending fire from her core up into her throat, she arched her back and grabbed the sheets in her fists.

“Interesting,” his smiling lips were like a magic touch against her abdomen. “How about this?”

He slid his index finger inside her wet heat and she contracted around him. All the muscles around her uterus quivered—hell, no muscle in her body could sit still from wanting him.

“Cullen,” she gasped out in frustration, “are we going to have intercourse or what?!”

He chuckled against the underside of her heaving breast and eased a second finger in, holding her hips down with his other forearm when her body jerked upward again.

Then he wrapped his powerful mouth around her right breast and all she could do was moan. He suckled lightly at first, drawing her boiling blood into a low simmer, but he steadily increased the pressure, driving her higher with mouth and fingers, periodically whirling his tongue around her beading nipple, until he gave one, hard suck followed by a nip with his teeth.

“Cullen!” she gasped out in pleasure, distracted enough for him to thrust a third finger within her.

“There,” he said, voice heavy with satisfaction.

She arched, hips still pinned under his arm, and gasped his name over and over again as she writhed against the soft sheets. The summer heat and fire in her hearth were nothing compared to this roiling fire within her; she feared they’d set the bed aflame.

She could feel him watch her, but she was blind and thrashing, her neck arched toward the ceiling. She’d never been so high. Surely she would crash soon.

But he seemed determined to find a higher peak.

She moaned when he resumed sucking on her breast, his lips moving in a steady, demanding rhythm that almost distracted her from his stroking, searching fingers.

“Cuh—Cullen!” she gasped, flailing hands finally finding his golden curls and holding on for dear life.

Then his fingers pressed the perfect spot and her breath left her in a wordless scream of ecstasy. He released her breast with a wet pop.

“Yes, that’s it.” He pressed again and another jolt of joy coursed through her nerves. She was probably gripping his scalp hard enough to bruise, but he was grinning in triumph. “Right there.”

“Damn it, Cullen, kiss me!” She dragged his mouth to hers and plunged her tongue in, trying desperately to fill him up like he filled her.

He pressed the spot again, knocking the wind out of her so she broke contact with his mouth and panted. Before she could get her bearings, he pulled his fingers out and rose to his knees, yanking her flush to his thighs and draping her legs over his shoulders. She gasped in surprise and grabbed his thighs for support.

He was glistening above her, nude but for the gold coin and chain around his neck, flashing in the firelight.

“Evelyn,” his voice was steady, his molten gaze penetrating, though the rest of him shook. “Do you want me?”

“Yes,” she sobbed out. “Cullen, yes!”

He entered her slowly, part-way, and started easing out again.

“More!” she demanded, and he chuckled.

“Just finding the right angle, luv.”

Whatever she was going to say next was wiped from her mind and mouth when he snapped his hips forward, hilt deep, right into the spot he’d worked with his fingers. She groaned with need and struggled to keep her eyes open on his gorgeous face, his brow furrowed in concentration while his lips played that smirk that made her juices run.

She raised her limp hand to trace the scar over his lip and he turned his face to kiss her palm. Such tenderness in the midst of powerful sex almost brought happy tears to her eyes, but he might misunderstand—

“Oh!” she cried out when he thrust again.

“Ev, I love you.”

Before she could respond, he pushed his thumb against her clit and orgasm washed over her with a silent scream. Cullen pistoned his hips in earnest, driving them both right back up the mountain of pleasure. Shuddering gasps rocked them both. He gripped her thigh with his right hand while he worked her clit with his other, setting a frantic pace. She clung to his legs and let the crashing tide carry her wherever he went.

He roared to the heavens when he spilled into her, rocking erratically. She clenched and pumped around him, drawing the waves out for them both as she plunged after him.

Eyes closed, he knelt, panting, cradling the side of her calf against his right cheek with his warm hand.

“Hmm,” she purred and clenched again around him, making his eyes fly open.

She grinned and wiggled her hips. He laughed and eased out, gently sliding her legs down to the bed and crawling up beside her to lie on his side and rest their foreheads together.

“Hadn’t forgotten about you,” he said, “just trying to catch my breath.”

“Yeah,” she kissed the tip of his nose, “you have that effect on me, too.”

With a contented sigh, he pulled the sheets up over them both and wrapped his arms around her, nestling his calf between hers. She ran her thumb along the coin he wore and burrowed her face into his chest, inhaling his musky scent.

“Would you like to stay with me tonight?” she murmured again, just in case he wanted to return to his fancy guest room at the fortress.

“Yes.” His answer was the lightest of whispers, like a fragile hope.

“Then stay.”

She refused to think about the end of his visit, how his duties would take him away. She also wouldn’t think about assassins tonight, or how they might want the King’s guest gone, as well as the King, now that he’d interrupted their plans.

Tomorrow they’d worry about villains and farewells. Tonight, she’d sleep peacefully in his arms.


	17. Three rules

Sam hoped to see the Commander at the training ring, but when the Princess led him down to the Queen, no one else was there.

“Thank you, Sera,” Queen Margaret said, “We’ll see you at dinner.”

The Princess blinked in surprise, but bowed to her mother and returned to the keep, leaving Sam alone with the Herald of Andraste.

“Your Majesty,” Sam belatedly remembered his manners and bowed.

She inclined her head with the slightest of acknowledgements, the edge of her lips curving up in amusement. The Queen wore green leather prowler armor with the Theirin crest blazing on her silver breastplate and a long, purple ram’s leather glove on her left hand. Her right hand was bare. In the stories, her right was covered, leaving her Marked hand free to close the Fade rifts that no longer plagued Thedas.

He wondered why she hid it now.

“Rule one,” she said with no introduction, “Everybody bleeds. You _will_ get cut. It’s up to you to make sure your opponent is the dead one.”

A thrill coursed through him. The Queen was teaching him how to be a better fighter. He’d take full advantage of every second, ask every question.

“I thought rule one was never take your eye off the enemy.”

She dropped stealth powder so fast, he didn’t see her do it. He rolled right and sprung to his feet with his back against the stable wall, drawing his short sword and dagger from his belt simultaneously before he was fully upright.

Half a breathless second later, there was a whoosh to his left as she plunged dual daggers into the back of an unsuspecting practice dummy stuffed full of straw. The movement dispelled her powder. With less than a blink, she cloaked again.

Heart beating with uncontrollable excitement, Sam rolled straight forward, up onto his feet in a half-crouch, circling the visibly vacant yard with sideways steps.

He thought he could almost hear and feel her movements. Almost.

“Rule two,” the Queen appeared in the stable doorway, mere inches from where he’d stood two seconds ago. “Kill quickly. Speed saves you. If you’re lucky, you’ll have two seconds to dispatch your enemy before their friends descend on you.

“Even in a solo battle, the more time you give your enemy, the more chance they have to get a lucky hit and kill you. You’ll tire faster than you think.”

She made her way to the wooden bench and set her weapons on it, picking up a pair of wooden practice daggers and gesturing for him to do the same.

“Practice blades,” her green eyes shined with challenge. “Guard Captain’s orders.”

He couldn’t help but grin as he exchanged his steel weapons for the wooden ones. She was going to go hand-to-hand with him. He’d get his ass kicked, but maybe he’d get a hit or two in before he ate dirt—or after the first few times he ate dirt. He had a feeling it was going to be a new staple of his diet, and he couldn’t be happier.

“Rule three?” he asked with a smirk, and was rewarded with a genuine, toothy smile.

“Survive.”

-

Sam was disappointed not to see the Commander at dinner. He wanted to observe how a seasoned warrior spoke with the Queen at table. He’d managed not to completely disgrace himself this afternoon, but learning faster ways to parry was a lot less mysterious than navigating the niceties of nobles.

He sat mid-table next to the Princess and across from Duncan, ravenous from today’s workout. He had some awesome bruises, too—and he, indeed, had a mouthful of dirt when he washed up and changed for dinner—but liked the soreness for what it meant.

“Well done, Sam,” the Queen had said casually after a fast and dirty hour that left him panting. “I’ll see you at dinner.”

It was the highest point of his life, and he still floated on the euphoria. He’d even got a hit in, a quick and lucky blow that left a red welt over Queen Margaret’s right thumb—right before she felled him again with a “fatal” blow.

“Excellent,” she smiled, holding up her injured hand. “You’re dead, but I’m sure this wound will end me.”

He’d smiled and jumped right back into another dozen losses.

“Hey, hands of my oranges,” the Princess glared at her brother and Duncan grinned impishly, handing Sam the bread basket.

At the head of the table, the King and Queen spoke quietly with the Enchanter and Messere Rollie. Sam focused his eyes on his plate and his ears on their conversation.

“Cullen failed,” King Alistair said with barely contained mirth. “Word from my runner is he never made it past the foyer.”

“I’m sorry, Sire,” Messere Rollie said, “I saw he was uncomfortable with the idea and I should have suggested someone else.”

“No, no, this was great,” the King chuckled and the Queen said his name with quiet warning.

“Yes, Margie, I’ll behave,” his chuckle indicating he wasn’t planning on it.

“I’ll find someone else,” the Queen said. “Someone their spies have never seen. I hadn’t expected an opportunity so soon anyway, and Dorian’s got his end under control for the moment.”

At mention of the Magister, Sam snuck a quick glance toward them.

The Queen leaned forward to talk with the Enchanter and her fiancé while the King sat straight with his lips twitching and eyes sparkling with laughter, his left hand over top of his wife’s right, fingers intertwined on top of the table.

Sam took a sip of his water. Duncan regaled his sister about some Jed Jenny prank, neither of them paying him or their parents any attention.

The Queen continued, “We can try again by month’s end. The agent won’t run because the job’s not done—and he thinks we don’t know where he is.”

Their conversation wandered elsewhere, without revealing which foyer had stumped the Commander, anything else about the great Inquisition hero Dorian Pavus, or what the “job” was. It could be about the assassins in the marketplace, or something else entirely. Sam wasn’t exactly privy to the workings and worries of the Crown.

Enchanter Stella and Messere Rollie bid the King and Queen goodnight and left the dining room, leaving Sam alone with the royal family.

“Hmm,” King Alistair hummed and Sam chanced another look. Duncan and the Princess were so caught up in their own conversation, he could walk down the center of the tabletop and they wouldn’t notice.

King Alistair and Queen Margaret had eyes for no one but each other. He suckled at the underside of her bare wrist with his tongue.

“Ahl—Alistair,” she gasped out. “You’re forgetting where we are again. We’re not alone.”

“Sure we are. Our guest is off consoling himself in the arms of the Healer.”

“I knew that before you did,” she laughed.

“I have you all to myself tonight.”

“You always have,” she traced a gloved finger down his cheek.

They rose and left, hand-in-hand, without bothering to tell anyone goodnight.

Sam shook his head and finished his dessert. Apparently, even nobles lost their minds when it came to a pretty girl. It didn’t solve the mystery of whatever “job” the Queen needed doing, but he now knew it would be pointless to wait up and see if he could catch a glimpse of the Commander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margie and Alistair are remembering their moment together in the shadows of The King and the Inquisitor, [Chapter 10](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4366598/chapters/9922799) (A door with a lock).


	18. Lucky

Just four days after she’d saved his life, Cullen woke in Evelyn’s arms, painfully aware he couldn’t stay wrapped up in her forever.

 _I shouldn’t have told her._ Made love, sure—agreed to mutually pleasurable sex, certainly—but said “I love you?”

With those words came a promise. One he couldn’t keep. He’d said the words, led her to believe it was safe for her to say them back and he’d be there for her.

Twice last night she’d told him to stay—she’d said “tonight,” but he’d heard the wish for more in her words. He couldn’t stay.

For the moment, she was curled toward him, sleeping with her soft lips slightly parted. Cullen brushed a strand of hair from her face, enjoying her warm peace.

He pushed his worries and failures back behind the heaviest door at the back of his heart and locked it. He’d focus on giving Ev happiness while he was here. He wouldn’t slip up again.

She sighed and stretched against him, eyes fluttering open sleepily.

“Good morning,” he slid his hand over her shoulder and arm. “Dream of me?”

“Morning,” she mumbled, rubbing her thumb over the soft patch of healed skin on his side.

He gasped as the touch shot electric bolts through his body and into his cock, making him instantly hard. She giggled and tasted his chin, massaging his stubble with her lips.

“Lots of fresh new nerve endings there,” she said, rubbing his side with her palm.

“You know all kinds of marvelous things,” he answered, voice raw as he drew her closer and licked up her throat.

“I love you,” she gasped out.

His only answer was to claim her lips and roll to his back, pulling her along to straddle him.

 _I love you_ didn’t pass his lips again.

-

Ev reveled in the feel of Cullen between her legs, how his hands slid up her ribs to brush past her nipples and plunge into her hair. Maker, did he love her hair and show it in ways that set her whole body on fire. She was already more than ready for him, leaving a wet mark on his trembling lower abdomen as she lifted herself up to go lower and slip his penis inside, clenching around him with a triumphant cry.

She rode him hard and fast, sending them both into orgasm quicker than it would take her to get dressed.

“Ah,” she said, flopping down next to him on her side. “Now _that’s_ how to say ‘good morning.’”

He smiled and placed a quick kiss on her nose before rolling out of bed and reaching for his breeches.

“How’s the shoulder?” she asked, drinking in the sight of his muscular buttocks as he leaned over.

“Good. I think I’ll try to lift a shield today. If I can handle the weight, the quickest way to get past the soreness and limber up will be a sparring session.”

She got up and pulled her dress on without her underthings.

“Let me check your alignment and bicep before you go.”

He’d held the adjustments well, despite the long walk to Gran’s the other day and their energetic lovemaking.

“Right hip and C2,” she said in her professional voice, hanging the chiropractic pad back up on the wall. “I expected more. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone whose muscles are so perfectly balanced.”

His response was a devilish grin that made her blush.

“Want to come to dinner tonight or tomorrow?” she asked hopefully.

He leaned in, just shy of her lips. “How about both nights?”

“Yes,” she breathed out.

They stood like that for a few short seconds that felt like endless years.

“Cullen, I love you.”

He scooped her up off her feet, hard with crushing arms and kissed her senseless with demanding lips and tongue. Her mind spun, empty of all thought. He set her down and sauntered out.

-

Cullen floated on the happy heat of that kiss all the way back to the fortress, not caring about his disheveled hair and overnight stubble. He only had a few things he needed to do today: clean up, test his shield arm, apologize to Margie and Alistair, and see Ev again.

The Margie and Alistair part was embarrassing, but it couldn’t be worse than what they’d already been through, and the upcoming dinner dates with Ev made anything seem doable.

He was relieved to find the Queen alone oiling her blades by the sparring ring.

“Good morning, Cullen!” she said, then plowed right on before he could reply. “Don’t worry about yesterday; I’ve got other ideas on how to handle it. Have you proposed to her yet, told her about your accommodations at your Inquisition post?”

He stood there with his mouth open, brain frantically whirring to catch up.

Margie didn’t care he’d botched yesterday’s investigation, or not bothered to send word that he wouldn’t be back last night. She also knew about Evelyn.

“I, uh,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “We’re not getting married.”

“Oh,” she said cheerfully. “My mistake. I thought you got lucky last night.”

“I did—I mean—oh, Maker.” He covered his face with a hand and her laughter pealed across the yard.

“I’m messing with you, Rutherford. Healer Evelyn’s the one who got lucky last night.”

He gaped at her like a guppy.

“Your mission with Cassandra and Josephine would be her cuppa, I think. A proper challenge. She likes those. If you don’t snag her now, she might run off to find Josie and join on her own. We’d miss her singular talents, of course, but we’d figure it out.”

Margie put the lid back on the oil tin and headed for the keep, a bounce in her step.

Could Evelyn be interested in leaving the capitol with him? If she joined the Inquisition, she’d have to leave her clinic behind. She’d lose all her privacy. She’d gain . . . him. Or maybe she’d love the idea of helping refugees, but not the idea of being tied to . . . him.

He shook himself out of the frantic “what if” spiral that constricted his chest. He had another three weeks to be with Ev and figure it out. Thinking about the future could wait.

“Morning, Cullen!” On his way inside, Enchanter Stella rushed past him and down the steps toward the gate, her long red hair a billowing trail of fire in her wake.

He hoped everyone else was at breakfast or still abed—especially Alistair. He really didn’t want to talk with the King right now.

-

Ev hummed a happy tune as she washed and dressed. Less than a minute after she’d unlocked the door for clinic hours, Stella rushed in, beaming.

“Ev, Ev! How was it? What’s he like? Lots of muscle? Not as much as Rollie, of course, but still.  Dexterous fingers? Tell me! I waited until he got back to the fortress, but I can’t wait anymore.”

“Stella!” Ev chastised her with mock outrage. “Cullen would not want me to share details of our sex life.”

“Oh, pish posh,” Stella plopped down at the dining table. “He’d blush and puff right up like a peacock. I want details."

Ev chuckled and poured tea. “Six weeks ago you thought sex was boring.”

“That was before Rollie screwed my brains out, mixed them up with love, and stuck them back in my skull.”

“I thought the story was it was you who dragged him off to your room.”

“Oh, whichever version suits me at the moment; the result is the same.” Her engagement ring flashed in the firelight as she added two sugar cubes to her cup.

“Not pining for Connor?” Ev asked.

“Maker, no, that was years ago.”

“You’re becoming as much of a rascal as your brother.”

“I wish,” Stella laughed and took a sip of her tea. “So, Cullen?”

“Yes, he’s strong, and, yes, his calloused hands are wonderful.”

The red head’s blue eyes sparkled. “And tender?”

“Yes.”

Stella sighed and mimicked a swoon, slouching back in her chair, the back of her hand to her forehead.

“When do you see him next?”

“He’s coming to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Stella’s voice went flat. “That’s . . . anti-climactic.”

Ev nonchalantly stirred honey into her own cup and took a sip. “I may ask him to spend the night.”

“Yes! After dinner, you can cuddle up in front of the fire—”

“Stella, it’s summer—”

“Pillow talk, then: You can discretely grill him for details on the Inquisition’s healers.” She smiled brightly. “Surely they could use you. You could go with him.”

Every pore of Ev’s body was suddenly wiped free of joy. How could Stella have forgotten?

“I can’t leave Denerim,” Evelyn said calmly.

“Sure, you do all the time.”

“For an afternoon at Gran’s. I can’t leave Alistair.”

“Ev—”

Anger flared so strongly, Ev’s response came out strangled instead of a shout.

“If I leave, Sera’s father dies, and Ferelden falls apart.” She stood abruptly. “Stella, please don’t ruin my summer with wishful thinking.”

Ev stormed out the back and slammed the door.

“I don’t want to do laundry,” she grumbled, plunking her butt on the ground and drawing her knees to her chest.

Her anger slipped out, like a silent lover who doesn’t bother to wake you the morning after. Ev’s shoulders slumped in resignation and she rested her forehead on her knees, feeling . . . empty. She had no tears to shed.

Just a few feet away, beyond her tall fence, was the bustle of the Denerim market. She could also hear the priest declaring the Chant from the Chantry’s front garden. No one saw Ev sitting on the ground in silent stillness.

A moment later, the front door opened and closed quietly. A minute after that, Georgie came out back and sat by Ev, wrapping lithe arms around her in a tight squeeze.

“Stella’s gone home. Want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Ev wrapped an arm around Georgie. “I’m stuck here.”

“Alan might know a way.” Georgie looked up. “When I mixed potions with Stella yesterday, she said she’d had a Dream visit with Connor. Alan’s at the College for [Matrinalis](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Calendar#List_of_months_and_holidays), maybe Parvulis. You could give Stella a message to dream to him.”

Ev cringed. Everyone knew that if you interrupted Enchanter Alan while he was reading, you’d best cast a barrier spell on yourself first. She could imagine his reaction to a Dream visit.

“No, he’d be pissed if we invaded his head. _If_ I consult with him, it has to be by letter.” The numbness was gone and Ev felt a spark of courage. “I’ll think about it.”

“Write the letter while you think about it,” Georgie squeezed her tighter. “Send it in the morning. You can always change your mind later.”

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Months of the year](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Calendar#List_of_months_and_holidays): In Thedas, Matrinalis is the eighth month of the year; Parvulis is the ninth.


	19. Shield and quill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How do you tell friends you were shot five days ago, are completely healed, and now shagging the local Healer, whom you just met?”

Cullen had seen Ev not thirty minutes before, but he missed her already. Their daytime hours apart could not move fast enough.

He was relieved to find the dining room empty. Those who took breakfast early were done and the late risers weren’t up yet. He filled a plate and took it up to his room, where he sat on the window seat and watched the first stirrings of off-duty guards in the sparring ring.

Just a few minutes later, there was a polite double-knock on the door: a kitchen maid had brought up a cup of Ev’s steaming broth on a tray.

“Thank you, Georgeanne.”

“Commander,” the lass blushed and curtsied before returning to the servants’ stairs.

Cullen sipped his broth and resumed his watch at the window. He was surprised not to see Margie there. Anyone who wanted to spar with her knew to show up early to try to snag the honor, but she hadn’t reappeared since she’d welcomed him back at the stables.

He shaved, tamed his hair, and changed into an old shirt and worn breeches that fit comfortably under a worn jerkin. He ignored his heavier armor, strapped on his scabbard, and turned to face his shiny Inquisition shield like it was a new recruit who needed to learn deference.

“Healer says no restrictions,” he said, picking it up.

He felt a little soreness, but his grip felt sure, and his muscles remembered exactly what they needed to do.

A thrill coursed through him. He hadn’t sparred with anyone for ten days or more. He felt the voracious need for the kind of exercise that only comes from wielding a blade, absorbing a blow. He needed a head-to-head with an opponent who could plow him into the ground or stab him in the back.

With an excited bounce in his step, Cullen went down to the sparring ring. None of the Theirins made an appearance, but he had no trouble finding several off-duty guards eager to try their hand at taking down the Commander.

The spectators leaning on the fence changed regularly over the next hour, including various staff, Enchanter Stella and Ser Rollie, and the skinny brown-haired man he’d seen chatting with Margie yesterday. He’d have to ask her about him.

His last match, the only one he lost, was the swiftest. Guard Captain Jane blocked his first hit, evaded his second by stepping right into his chest, and tripped him with an ankle round his foot, sending him sprawling backward in the dirt. Before he could blink, her foot held his practice blade flat on the ground and hers was at his throat.

“I believe the point is mine, Commander.”

“I yield,” he laughed. Or, more accurately, coughed. It would take a few moments to catch his breath. “Perfect form, Guard Captain.”

The red head stepped back with a grin and offered him a hand up. Maker, she couldn’t be more than twenty. Or did everyone seem that young to him these days?

“Even before I trained with the Herald, I was fairly decent with a blade, but if you’re looking to compete with pike or bow, Benny’s our best.” She gestured toward a guard leaning a shoulder in the doorway of the stable.

Benny raised a lazy hand in response, but his eyes looked sharp as a bandit’s. He had a soft, clean-shaven face and average build. If not for his silver hair, Cullen would have thought him the same age as the Guard Captain.

Cullen had no skill with a bow or pike, and he didn’t feel like trying to pick them up today with a spry expert who might be young enough to be his son, or might be older than him. He was happy with the good workout he’d had so far.

“Perhaps another time. You have a good Guard. Thank you for including me in this morning’s exercises.”

“Any time, Commander.”

Cullen bathed and changed quickly, then sat to write a letter to Cassandra and Josephine. If any one of them were to be gone more than a week or two, they each wrote back home weekly, or after a major event—a safeguard, of sorts. Even in winter, if they went more than a fortnight between messages, they all knew reinforcements were needed. In sixteen years, they’d never gone more than eleven days without some kind of communication. They teased Josie about being the fussy one, but he and Cassandra were worriers, too, and they all took comfort in the system.

Cullen’s communications tended to sound like dry field reports, though he would occasionally mention if his given location had lovely gardens or fine dining; Josephine wrote each like a grand treatise, and Cassandra made each letter sound like she was issuing orders, even when she was reporting events.

“How do you tell friends you were shot five days ago, are completely healed, and now shagging the local Healer, whom you just met?” he asked the blank piece of parchment, covering his red face with the hand that didn’t hold the quill.

“You don’t,” he said firmly, throwing down the quill and leaning back in his chair with an exasperated groan.

He allowed himself one petulant minute of self conflict before picking up the quill and leaning forward to complete his dutiful letter, starting with the date in clear script at the top.

It was likely Margie had already written them about his injuries—she probably had even told Dorian via sending crystal that same day—and news of the attempt on the King’s life had surely spread like wildfire all the way to Orlais already, so he had best officially send word himself that he was well.

_Dear Cassandra and Josephine . . ._

It had taken him three years before he’d address them so informally in written correspondence.

_All is well today, though on day one of my visit, there was an assassination attempt on the King in the marketplace and I was injured in the skirmish. The local healer is very talented and I mended quickly. Today I enjoyed a spirited sparring session with the Guard Captain and Royal Guard._

Cassandra would appreciate that. She’d hound him for more battle details when he got home. He could in turn let her know he didn’t appreciate her arrangement of his forced holiday—not that he was mad about that any more. In fact, his month seemed all too short for him now.

_The summer weather is perfect again in Denerim this year, the gardens blooming exactly the way they were when Josephine visited last._

Josie had oohed and ahhed after Alistair’s gardens so much their last visit, Margie had sent an entire trunk full of cuttings home with her.

_I have started seeing Healer Evelyn socially and I am impressed by her extensive medical training._

Shit. His hand hovered over the page. He hadn’t meant to reveal the first part of that sentence, and the second part sounded horribly inadequate. Crossing it out would just draw attention to it and they’d grill him with questions later. He could start over with fresh parchment . . . forget it. They probably wouldn’t think much of it. One always saw others “socially” when visiting the fortress.

Before he lost his nerve, Cullen jotted down a few more terse observations about business-as-usual in the Capitol, sealed the letter, and handed it off to one of the King’s runners to forward to a messenger.

Duty done, Cullen went down to lunch, where Alistair, Duncan, and Sera sat alone, sharing a much more riotous conversation than they did when Margie was at table.

“Then what did Warden Commander Duncan do, Dad?” the young prince leaned forward, eyes shining.

The Princess leaned back in her chair, legs splayed lazily, gripping her sides and crying with laughter.

“I’ll tell you later,” Alistair winked at his son. “Good afternoon, Cullen.”

“Your Majesty,” he bowed. “Princess Sera, Prince Duncan.”

“Hey, Cullen,” Sera hiccupped.

Her brother gave him a polite nod that didn’t hide his irritation and Cullen bit back the urge to laugh. The boy had no sense of the subtleties of the Grand Game. Then again, neither did Cullen, who didn’t have the excuse of youth.

Cullen ate at a polite pace, exchanged pleasantries with the King and Princess, and pretended to ignore the hilarious little glares the Prince kept shooting in his direction. He finally took pity on the boy and excused himself before dessert.

“So,” Alistair resumed his story as Cullen left the dining room. “Duncan’s so flustered, we think he’s going to have a stroke right then and there, and Riordan finally confesses that _he_ had been the one to help me fill the Revered Mother’s dressing gown with moldy cheese . . .”

Cullen shook his head and kept walking. He should be scandalized, but it was a harmless prank from years ago. And he was busy enjoying his summer holiday.

When he exited the keep, the only people in the courtyard were Margie and the young rogue he’d seen her pause to talk to yesterday morning. They were alone in the ring, silently dueling with practice blades like the fate of Thedas depended on it. The man was nearly as fast as Margie, and managed to parry three blows before she knocked him in the dirt.

“Excellent,” she said. “Hey, Cullen, headed to town?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. I regret to report that I will not be able to attend dinner this evening.”

“I bet,” she smirked with private knowing before turning to formally introduce him.

“Commander Rutherford, this is Sam, another summer guest of ours. Sam, this is Commander Rutherford of the Inquisition.”

So this was the mercenary Sera had captured and befriended less than two weeks ago. Either he wasn’t surprised by the Queen’s description of him as a “guest,” or he was very good at hiding it.

“It’s an honor, Commander,” he took the hand Cullen offered in a firm handshake.

Then Cullen understood why he seemed so familiar.

“Starbuck,” Cullen blurted out and Margie rolled her eyes in exasperation.

“Commander?” Sam’s polite inquiry gave nothing away. This kid was good.

“He’s your brother.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Cullen gave him a genuine smile. “He’s a good man. The Inquisition is lucky to have him.”

Sam offered a real smile in return. “Yes, Commander, you are.”

Margie snorted a laugh. “Yeah, well, Cullen, we have work to do and you’re _on vacation_ , so, scoot.” She shooed him away with her hands.

“Nice to meet you, Sam.”

“Commander,” he turned back toward Margie, rolling swiftly aside when she dropped stealth powder before he’d even fully faced her.

As fascinating as watching rogues in the ring might be, Cullen headed for the market, his mind already on Ev.


	20. I don’t speak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: A child recites a story about a Templar raping a woman who later dies in childbirth.

Cullen helped Georgie cart linens out behind Ev’s house into a small fenced area only accessible from inside. The brown fence slats had no gaps and rose to points more than a foot above his head. Four rain barrels took up half the space, with a hand-operated water pump, a wringer, and several sets of clothesline strung between the house and fence.

“We launder everything ourselves,” Ev explained. “I helped Queen Margaret when she had the flu once, and, as thanks, she had this well dug for me. We—”

There was a knock at the front door.

“If you’ll excuse me.” Ev went inside and shut the back door, leaving Cullen alone with her young assistant.

“She’ll open the door when it’s okay to go in,” Georgie poured lye into two of the barrels and handed Cullen a mixing paddle.

“You help with surgeries,” Cullen said. “Do you ever assist with consults?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny any knowledge of patient histories or identities,” Georgie deadpanned and Cullen laughed.

“Point taken. What _can_ you say?”

“I don’t usually say anything,” the youth replied with exaggerated nonchalance.

Then Cullen got it. In the Wilds and with Gran, the kid talked non-stop. When in the city, Georgie never said anything outside the house. Inside, Ev’s young assistant didn’t say anything if people other than Ev or Gorim were present. Except Cullen.

It was a sacred trust. Georgie trusted Cullen enough to speak in front of him. That’s what had surprised Ev and Gorim that first night.

A terrible wave of honor flowed through him and he swallowed tears before they could form in his throat.

Hands busy with adding water and linens, Georgie filled the silence like a bard tells a story.

“My mother was young, probably no more than sixteen. One of Vivienne’s new Templars sired me—not that my mother had any say in the matter.

“While the Circle representative he was escorting met with nobles, the Templar decided to wander the countryside surrounding Denerim. He had the entire afternoon free, and, after the great city of Val Royeaux, Denerim was boring. Perhaps in the wild he could find sport, kill a wolf for a pelt to commission some fine boots for winter.”

With a bard’s sense for dramatic pause, Georgie added more soap to the barrels then resumed the tale.

“His hunt denied him a wolf, but granted him a lusher prize—”

Cullen dreaded what inevitably came next.

“—a young lass with gold hair and fresh curves, ripe for plucking. She collected elf root by a stream under the trees, the bright sun shining down on her like a beacon.

“The Templar from the grand Orlesian city bowed and introduced himself to the Fereldan country girl. She replied with a shy smile of welcome, but had duties to return to, so bid him fare-thee-well and took a step toward the road.

“‘Wait,’ the Templar said, grabbing her arm. Menacing shadows fell from the trees. ‘I’m a guest. Surely you can offer a weary traveler some hospitality.’

“When she bid him good day again, he backhanded her with a _slap!_ ”

Cullen cringed.

“The skies turned black in the young lass’ eyes as the foreign Templar threw her to the ground. He lifted her skirts over her face and arms, pinning her beneath his larger weight. He called her filthy names in her own language and another she didn’t understand any more than his refusal to stop. If she was so filthy, why did he want her?

“She kicked and screamed, but couldn’t reach her herb-cutting knife—not that it would have saved her from the armored Templar.

“He wasn’t done with her until sundown. Then the Templar rose and spit on her, leaving her in a bloodied heap by the stream.

“Knee and ankle twisted too much for her to move, the Fereldan lass lay alone for a cold night, praying the Maker take her to his side.”

Cullen stared in open-mouthed horror as Georgie went about the laundry and calmly told the tale.

“But death doesn’t come for all who desire it, and with each dawn comes new hope: Lo, a dwarven merchant compelled to travel through the night saw her with the dawn. He helped her into his cart and delivered her to an old woman who was friends with a Healer.

“As a damaged maid, she could not return to her parents, and so became the daughter of the wise old woman.

“She soon was round with child and happy in her new mother’s garden, but she never stepped past the yard again: The world was too dangerous, and life was too short.

“She went into labor early and bled much—too much—before the Healer arrived to find the child breached, the umbilical cord tight around the infant’s neck. But Healer Evelyn is the most gifted healer in Thedas, a woman who can hold your life force this side of the Veil while her hands perform miracles in the waking world, and she saved the child. A child whose voice would forever bear the scar of that bloody day.”

Stirring paddle forgotten, Cullen cried silent rivers. Georgie met his gaze with a kind smile.

“That’s not how Gran tells it, but it is true nonetheless. And that is why, Cullen, I plan to be the greatest surgeon in Thedas. For my mother and others like her. For their sons and daughters.”

Cullen wiped his nose on his sleeve. “How old are you, Georgie?”

“Ten. How old are you?”

“Forty-seven,” Cullen gave a watery chuckle, “and I’m not half as wise or bold as you.”

Georgie shrugged and resumed stirring the laundry.

“Blame Gran. She was a bard. When Ev talked to her about age-appropriate books and music for me, Gran laughed and said, ‘This kid will be cussin’ like Admiral Isabella.’”

“And do you?”

Georgie gave him an impish grin and started humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Ploughing a Troll.”

Cullen blushed and went back to paddling his own barrel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter weeks ago, before Evelyn told her survivor story and took Cullen to bed. It was the first time this story made me cry and I knew I was on the right track.
> 
> [Ploughing a Troll](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DCAFD8mMqls) refers to the Miracle of Sound song by independent artist Gavin Dunne.
> 
> Gav’s Dragon Age: Inquisition song, [All As One](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3MVqdYcbDp8), is one of my favorites.


	21. Taint and Mark

After Georgie had made sure Ev sent her letter off by courier to Alan, care of the Independent College of Magi, Ev pushed the matter from her mind. Just as she had before her mother left, she was determined to make this time with Cullen happy. He wasn’t going off to war—not exactly—yet this summer might be their only time together.

The next two weeks were a beautiful blur. Ev spent her days helping patients and her nights in Cullen’s arms. He’d accompanied Ev, Georgie, and Gorim on their next two gathering days, and Gran seemed almost as smitten by Cullen as Ev was.

Last week, Georgie showed Cullen the three bows they always carried in Gorim’s cart—bows that had saved Stella and Rollie just a few weeks ago—and insisted that the Commander try to shoot a hare. The warrior missed, and bruised his wrist in the process.

“Kiss it better?” he’d asked Ev, making Gorim snort and walk on ahead while she tended his injury. By the time they’d caught up with the cart, Georgie had snagged a brace of coneys for Gran.

Alan’s reply arrived one sunny afternoon, while Ev helped a barmaid with a sprained ankle. Georgie answered the door and waved the sealed envelope excitedly overhead, before tucking it in a pocket to keep it safe until the patient was on her way.

“What is it?” Ev asked when they were alone.

“Alan,” Georgie handed the envelope over. “Open it, open it!”

“So soon?” Ev smoothed a hand over Alan’s familiar, flowing script and flipped it over to break the seal. “He must have responded the moment he—

“Oh, dear Maker!”

“What, Ev, what?!”

“ _‘Dear Healer Evelyn: Certainly, I will come and take your place in the King’s employ. Expect me in two week’s time. Ever in your service, Enchanter Alan.’_

Two week’s time. Judging from the date on the letter, he might arrive a few days before Cullen’s expected departure. But . . .

“I didn’t ask him to come! He only knows about Alistair because he was visiting last summer when Alistair had a bad night. Alan could feel his life force from all the way out here. He’s got the gift, but he’s no healer!”

This was not what she’d expected. What was she going to tell the King? Alistair was—well, Alistair. A sassily comedic King with a semi-secret health concern. And Alan was Alan, a no-holds-barred scholar who constantly reminded everyone they weren’t as clever as the books he read. They’d kill each other.

“Hey, Ev, this is great! I mean, it’s creepy for Alan to be so helpful, but the brusque reply sounds genuine. You can choose your own path now, wherever you want!”

Ev sank down onto the chair by her bed. “I . . . I know Alan could help him . . .”

“Ev,” Georgie asked softly, “is Alistair your real reason for clinging to Denerim?”  Georgie’s low, gravelly voice was a familiar comfort in a world suddenly tipped upside down. The words, however, may have well as come straight from Gran’s lips.

“I don’t know. I have an appointment with him later. I . . . I’ll have to talk to him about it.”

“Go now,” Georgie laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Gorim and I can cover the clinic—unless you want me or Stella to come along.”

“No,” she rose slowly, her shocked thoughts as sluggish as her body. “Stella will be ensconced with the Queen already. You’re right. I’ll go to Alistair now.”

Not at all slowed by her befuddled mind, Ev’s feet automatically walked her down the lane, over to the fortress—she was recognized at the gate and waved through without pause—and up to the Royal wing to knock on the door of King Alistair’s private parlor.

The King opened the door himself.

“Healer Evelyn, welcome!” his cheerful smile didn’t completely hide the drawn pallor of his face. Once a week really wasn’t enough. They’d have to double his treatment plan.

“As glad as I am you’re here to help me battle the taint, it looks like you’ve got something weightier on your mind.”

Panic gripped her. She hadn’t thought it showed. Her silly inability to know what she wanted from life wasn’t more important than the King’s concerns.

“Oh, no, Sire!”

He chuckled and bowed her in. That was another thing she could never get used to: the way Alistair always treated her like a noble lady.

“Tell me,” he said brightly. “You need not wait for a grievance day and stand in line outside my throne room. You have me all to yourself, a perfect opportunity.”

She gave a small curtsey. “You are too kind, Your Majesty. I don’t have a grievance. I was reflecting on a letter I received from a colleague who plans to . . . visit, next week. Perhaps you remember Enchanter Alan?”

He wrinkled his nose and lip in mild disgust. “The _scholar_ Stella brought to dinner.”

Ev’s heart sank.

“Yee-yes. Though not a healer himself, he shares my talent with life force.”

Alistair broke into a wide smile. “Brilliant! I knew he had to have some sort of redeeming value if he was Stella’s friend. If he settles in Denerim, perhaps I could hire his services. In fact, I think Margie has already exchanged correspondence with Dagna regarding his availability.”

Ev gaped at him and he laughed.

“Oh, Ev, the look on your face. Even before Cullen showed up, we knew you wouldn’t be with us forever. My wife and I have a wager on whether he or Lady Montilyet would recruit you first.”

“Which did you choose?” her voice squeaked out.

“I’m not allowed to tell.” He winked with that full grin that made hearts patter in even the most disinterested of matrons.

Ev’s heart pounded for an entirely different reason: after Alan arrived, she was free. Free. To go wherever she wanted. With whomever she wanted. She finally let herself want what she’d pretended didn’t matter for the last three weeks. She could travel again. Study obscure facets of medicine all over the world.

What she wanted was a life with Cullen.

Tomorrow, she’d invite him to a walk during the sunrise. A new dawn for a new life. No matter how hot his kisses, Cullen was such a bashful romantic, he’d love the poetic feeling of it. He—

“I can see your quick mind is already running ahead with plans,” Alistair chuckled and she blushed.

“Sorry.”

“No, no, I’m sorry for keeping you longer than usual. Shall we? Then you can get home in time for your dinner date.”

They sat across from each other, linked hands, and closed their eyes.

Just like his daughter, Alistair was as bright as the golden sun. Intertwined with his own brilliance was the taint of the Blight. The Darkspawn and Archdemon blood he’d consumed at his Joining made him a Grey Warden capable of absorbing and destroying an Archdemon’s soul, but it also ate him from inside. Without Ev’s help, he’d have succumbed to the whispers of the Calling long ago and taken The Long Walk to die a forgotten hero in the Deep Roads.

As precisely as she would wield a scalpel, Ev began the delicate task of extricating Alistair’s life force from the taint. They were both innately part of him now—despite the rumors of some Wardens miraculously losing the taint, no real cure had ever officially been found—and she put the two back in healthy balance. It was a type of healing, managing a chronic condition so the patient could live life as fully as possible.

Her power ebbed and flowed through him. His powers answered.

“Thank you, Evelyn,” he said quietly when they were done. “You’ve given me more time with my Margie.”

Blinking back tears, she pressed her lips together and nodded, rising as quickly as her drained limbs would allow, and giving a curtsey before she left.

-

Cullen had just finished washing up from a good sparring session when the King’s Steward knocked on his door.

“Commander, the Queen invites you to lunch in her parlor.”

“Thank you, Hill.”

Hill bowed and backed out, closing the door.

Cullen only felt a little guilty for mostly ignoring his host and hostess for the past fortnight. They were busy running a kingdom, and Margie had practically shoved him out the gate the first time he’d picked flowers for Evelyn. On the rare occasions he saw Alistair, he actually seemed friendly, though Alistair didn’t let up completely on the teasing.

Cullen donned his boots and headed for the Royal wing via the hall that connected it to the rooms reserved for noble guests and Margie and Alistair’s closest friends. It had been years since such an honor made him uncomfortable, but now he wondered what Ev would think about him taking such luxury for granted.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his lover stepped out of the King’s parlor. Alistair held the door open behind her, his hair disheveled and shirt collar loose.

Ev looked like she wanted to cry.

 _Remember_ , the memory of Gran whispered, _there is more to life than what we assume._

 _I would have walked past—patient confidentiality is paramount,_ Ev had told him.

A polite acknowledgement would have to do. He could comfort her after lunch, even if she couldn’t share with him what was going on.

“Good day, Healer Evelyn.”

“Commander,” she gave him a small smile and walked on.

“Rutherford,” Alistair stepped back, pulling the door open wider. “A moment, if you please.”

“Of course, Sire.”

Alistair offered him a seat and they settled in trim armchairs upholstered in deep red velvet.

“You’re wondering why she was with me.”

“It’s none of my business, Your Majesty,” Cullen said politely. He steeled himself for whatever was to come next.

“Bullshit,” Alistair scowled at him as if Cullen was being stupid on purpose. “If I were you, I’d have decked me first and asked questions later. The first woman you loved ended up in my bedroll before dying all too young; the second became my Queen. And now your current lover was alone with me in my chambers.”

A lifetime of practice kept Cullen’s face blank while the tempest of anger ripped his insides like a raging, bucking druffalo. He clenched his fists around the arms of his chair. If the King wanted him to hit him, he was very nearly there.

Alistair leaned back and appraised him thoughtfully.

“But you wouldn’t do it, would you?” he asked gently. “You wouldn’t ask. You’d just suffer in silence.

“Maker, Cullen, what did the Templars do to you?”

Shock at Alistair’s observations didn’t dispel the anger, but it changed it: instead of a horned beast bellowing through his chest to get out, he turned inward, all of him filled with a despair demon’s icy shrieking.

“You won’t ask, and she can’t tell you, so I have to: Healer Evelyn helps me with the taint, like Enchanter Stella helps Margie with the Mark.”

Cullen’s sharp gaze flew up as a new fear shot through him. Margie was ill?

“Shit,” Alistair rapped his own fist into the side of his head. “You didn’t know about that, either. You know,” he chuckled, “for as much as my wife goes on about open communication, we three seem to constantly muck it up.

“Margie’s fine, I’m fine. Her Fade magic is under control. My Warden senses are under control. We both have all the care we need and we’re not going anywhere soon.

“In fact,” Alistair smiled, “An obnoxious friend of Stella’s is coming to interview with me next week about my ‘condition.’ He’s practically on my payroll already. I won’t need to send out for house calls anymore.”

“No one’s as good as Ev,” Cullen murmured, rubbing his tired face with an anxious hand.

It was all of his worst fears rolled into one. Margie could lose her husband. She could be susceptible to other deadly illnesses. Ferelden could lose her King before her people were ready. Even with Sera’s betrothal to House Guerrin, Sera and Duncan were so young; they couldn’t lose their parents yet. No matter who was Regent, inexperienced youth on the throne invited another war. Tevinter already had a murderous spy entrenched in The Pearl and, with her cousin long dead, Orlais’ Empress might try to invade Ferelden, as her predecessors had done.

Maker, both Margie and Alistair needed Ev nearby, whatever talents other mages might claim to hold.

“Cullen,” Alistair said sternly. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop. Don’t change your life because of this. Don’t ruin hers because you think you know what’s best. She deserves more.”

“She does,” Cullen forced a polite smile and rose from his chair to bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty. The Queen has invited me to lunch in her parlor.”

Alistair eyed him skeptically, but nodded his assent. “I’ll be along shortly.”

-

Deep shadows hid Sam in the far side of the throne room while he listened to Enchanter Stella and her fiancé converse quietly just inside the door of the otherwise empty stone room. Mid-day light filtered in from the high windows, but no fire or candles lit the ghostly dim room of gray stone.

“So,” Rollie said, “This Alan guy, is he really as good as Ev?”

“He’s an asshole, but he knows his stuff,” Stella didn’t put any heat into her words. “He’s not a healer, but he can help Alistair.”

“But if the King can’t tolerate—”

Stella harrumphed. “Yeah, they always sound like they detest each other, but last summer they talked—amicably baited each other, really—at every opportunity, when it would have been easy to sit Alan and me at the other end of the table.”

“Wait. Alan was _your_ guest last summer?” her fiancé asked and Stella smiled mischievously.

“Of course. We mages and researchers stick together.”

“Did he—he—” Ser Rollie couldn’t find the words and the Enchanter giggled.

“He might have _thought_ about it—”

Rollie growled and cut her off with the kind of kiss that should not happen outside the bedroom. When they came up for air, he kept her crushed to his chest. She traced a gentle finger down the side of his face.

“Want to make me forget about him?” she asked and he growled again.

With a laugh, she took his hand and led him from the throne room.

So, the King had some kind of sickness, but it was under control. With magic. Did Sera know? Not necessarily. Duncan? Probably not.

It didn’t matter. It was just one more avenue someone could use against their family, and Sam would do anything to help keep them safe.

Sam skirted the perimeter and exited into another empty hallway. He had some time before meeting Mar—the Queen for their daily spar, timed for the hour every off-duty person was off at lunch. He didn’t mind the secrecy; it felt appropriate for rogue training.

In the meantime, he’d wander the halls and practice his reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t hate Templars; I don't hate the Order. I respect them and even love some of them, especially the Lothering Templar in Origins and Ser Delrin Barris in Inquisition. This story includes individual examples of when the Chantry and its Templar Order failed their own and society at large. In Guard My Heart, Seeker Cassandra and Seeker Rachel rescue Templar Stanley from a renegade mage too sure of her diplomatic immunity, and we find the Templars are targeted by our villain as much as the mages. In Heal My Heart, Ev overcomes her fear of Templars and we see how Cullen’s sense of duty to the imperfect social system of his early career warped his sense of self.
> 
> For those unfamiliar with the phrase “decked me,” it usually means punched in the head, though sometimes another blunt object is used to do the “decking.”
> 
> Want to know how Stella helps Margie with the Mark? Check out Chapter 8 ([The Mark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5637895/chapters/12990706)) in Stella and Rollie’s romance, Enchant My Heart. In this world state, the Exalted Council in the Trespasser DLC didn’t happen because the Inquisition had already downsized and repurposed when the Inquisitor resigned her post to marry King Alistair.


	22. Bruises, brothers, and bustier

Sam stood at-ease in the empty hall, hands clasped behind him as he leaned forward to read the gold placard below a rich oil painting of a woman warrior with hair the color of a roaring red wildfire.

“Ruh—Ree—Reeble—”

“Rebel Queen,” Duncan came up beside him. “Great-Grandma Moira. According to Dad, she was as blonde and shield-worthy as Sera, but the painter took some artistic liberties.”

“She fought the Orlesian occupation, didn’t—Duncan!”

Sam turned to find the younger boy’s left eye centered in a red-and-purple circle of skin. He could practically see the swelling worsen as he stared at the Prince.

“It’s nothing,” Duncan turned his face so Sam could only see his uninjured side. “I tripped.”

“Directly into the right hook of someone slightly taller than you, it looks like. I’d wager a whole week’s rations on it.

“We have to report this.”

“No! Please,” Duncan grabbed Sam’s elbow with both hands. Even with the kid’s full weight, Sam could have easily brushed him off, or dragged him along behind him, but Sam stopped to listen.

“It’s my fault, Sam. I surprised a kid in the market. I was a total asshole and they decked me without knowing who I am.”

“Where were your guards?”

“Just a few steps behind me,” Duncan gripped his arm tighter. “They wanted to give chase, but I ordered them home with me. They promised not to say anything.”

Duncan’s eyes filled with tears. “Please, Sam. I don’t want some other kid to die because I was stupid.”

Sam’s heart softened, but he had to make sure it was safe to listen to his heart.

“You promise me no one else has hit or threatened you?” he asked sternly.

“Yes!” Duncan gave a watery smile. “I’ve never even been spanked when I deserved it.”

“Okay, Duncan.” With a sigh of relief, Sam ruffled Duncan’s short hair. “We’ll do it your way.

“C’mon, kid. Rule one of head injuries is find something cold so your eye doesn’t swell shut.”

Duncan grinned and released his death grip from Sam’s elbow.

“Where do I find that?” Duncan sniffed away his tears and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

“A slab of meat from the ice box is gross, but works, yet we don’t want Georgeanne blabbing to her mum. While you stay hidden, _I_ will ask Enchanter Stella for some frozen beans for my sore back.”

“Did Mom hurt you?” Duncan scampered at his side.

“’Course she did,” Sam said in manly fashion, pulling the edge of his shirt from his breeches just enough to show the giant, yellowing bruise along his lower back and right side. “She’s the _Herald_.”

“Ouch,” the Prince flinched, his face full with mixed sympathy and pride. “Don’t feel bad. Even Dad usually loses to Mom. He says it’s because she’s good, not because she’s pretty.”

Sam laughed. “Can’t argue with that—on either count.”

The Enchanter’s office was in a tower overlooking the courtyard and gardens. Sam gestured for Duncan to wait in an alcove down the hall and knocked on the open door.

“Sam!” Enchanter Stella smiled brightly, “Please come in. What can I do for you?”

She was completely at ease, even though he’d been part of the party that had tried to kidnap her. It took all his courage not to squirm and look at the floor.

“Good afternoon, Enchanter Stella, I was wondering if I might get some frozen beans for my back?”

“Of course.” she opened the lid on a heavy chest near the door. “Here’s two. I freshen reserves daily. Anyone can help themselves.”

“Thank you.” He bowed. “And, if I may ask, I’ve been practicing my letters and I’d like to try reading something that’s not a picture book?”

“Ah,” her eyes twinkled, but she didn’t laugh. “I do believe Master Tethras is a popular choice. There are copies in the fortress’ common library, but you never know which you’ll find on the shelf.

“Here,” she pulled a volume from her personal shelf and handed it to him. “You’ll want to start with the first volume of _Swords and Shields_.”

Before she released her grip on the book, she leaned forward and spoke in a private undertone. “You’re also welcome to borrow the purple one, but don’t show it to Duncan; Margie doesn’t mind him reading Varric’s work, but she thinks he’s a bit young for _The Lady’s Guide_.”

Sam froze, eyes wide with uncertainty, and she laughed. “Rane’s not younger than me, but I have a brother, too, you know. Nothing wrong with a bit of male curiosity in the early years.

“Lovely to see you, Sam. Good day.”

Sam shook off his surprise and sauntered down the hall.

“Well?” Duncan asked.

“Cold compresses for your eye,” Sam handed them over with a flourish. “ _And_ one of Stella’s Tethras novels.”

Duncan stared in wonder at the book. “You remembered.”

“Of course I did. I promised. We even sealed the oath with saliva.”

Duncan giggled. “You said saliva.”

“Yeah, Master Reader,” Sam sassed, “your lofty words are rubbing off on me.”

Turns out neither of them had a burning urge to read the romance novel. When they returned to the Prince’s rooms and Duncan settled into bed with an ice pack over his eye, he handed Sam his illustrated copy of _Anne the Brave_.

“Want to practice?”

“Sure.” They’d read it together often enough that Sam could turn the pages at the proper time, even if he hadn’t been able to recognize any of the words. He’d known the story as his mother told it; it matched the written version almost word-for-word. Any one of his brothers could have followed along.

“One fine day in Ferelden, a mabari puppy named Anne decided she wanted a little girl of her very own. A girl strong enough to throw sticks. A friend to play hide-and-seek with in the autumn leaves. Someone who liked puppy kisses . . .”

Even though it was the middle of the day, Duncan was sound asleep by the second page. Sam kept reading aloud anyway, the happiest he’d ever been in his life. He finally understood that peaceful smile Buck and Stewart sometimes shared when they were home, watching over him: contentment.

“ . . . and so the mabari puppy and her girl curled into the blankets and drifted into sweet dreams. And all was well in Ferelden.”

The Prince slept on top of the comforter. Sam pulled the spare blanket up over him, closed the curtains, tiptoed out, and closed the door.

-

_I’ve killed the Herald of Andraste._

Sam stared down in horrified shock to where his wood practice blade rested against her neck, but the Queen laughed like a lunatic, even though he straddled her on the ground.

“Well done, Sam. I yield.”

He’d been wrapped up in the movements, color, scents, his mind forgetting the respectful distance he usually kept. Before today’s first match, she’d been “the Queen”; after today’s third, she’d been “Margie” in his mind; this last round, name and rank had been an amnesiatic blank while he focused on bringing down his opponent.

He’d felled one of the few people who couldn’t afford to look beatable. Sera and her parents had to appear untouchable, infallible, or they’d be in more danger. No matter how many guards they had.

Sam leapt back and offered her a hand up. “I’m so sorry.”

“Why? It’s what you’re supposed to do. I’m surprised it took you this long.”

He shrugged off the compliment, “I’m surprised I’ve come so far in a few short weeks.”

“Sam,” she said with a resigned sigh that pierced his heart, “You had these talents long before you befriended us.” She looked up, her lips quirked in amusement.

“You just needed someone to tell you it was okay not to hold back any more.”

She gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder and went inside, leaving him alone in the courtyard.

He was a friend of royalty. And he was a damned good fighter.

The first was a surprise. The second was a secret he couldn’t keep any more. But neither of these revelations told him what he should do next.

“What’s in front of me, Da?” he mumbled to himself. “Where am I going?”

“Being a man is no excuse to be smelly,” he heard his Da’s weekly admonishment in his head and laughed. It didn’t tell him where to go, it wasn’t the secret of life, but it did make him move from where his feet were rooted in the ring.

After a bath, Sam dressed in fresh clothes, strapped on his blades, and headed downstairs via one of the servants’ stairways that led to a shortcut through the throne room, where Sera was deep in a heated discussion with her mother. For the second time that day he found himself listening to a conversation intended for other ears.

“Mom, I know sending Cullen to spy on the brothel was a joke, but we can’t wait any longer. Dad’s—”

“Sera, much as I appreciate your input in our meetings, we do take precautions and have plans you’re not privy to. We have not been idle. Believe me, I haven’t forgotten the latest assassination attempts. I was there.”

“ _Attempts_ , more than one? How many times has this asshole come after us? Mom, are you going after this Tevinter at The Pearl or not? He’ll move elsewhere soon.”

“I’ll do it,” Sam stepped from the shadows. “I’ll go.”

Sera startled, but the Queen showed no surprise. She’d probably noticed him before he’d noticed them.

_Good. No one should be able to sneak up on the Herald._

“Thank you, Sam,” Margie said, “but they serve elite clientele and they’d turn away a young man of humble origins.”

“I’d wear a dress,” he blurted out before he could change his mind.

“ _I_ wouldn’t,” the Princess said in disgust. “Those things are torture.”

The Queen gave him an appraising look. “You’re young and trim enough,” she said pensively. “You’ve a certain waifish attractiveness I think would get you in.”

 _Holy shit._ Excitement coursed through him. Margie had planned to use him for this task from the beginning. He would have smiled, but it was clear Sera had no clue and she was horrified.

“Mother, you can’t be serious!” Sera gasped.

“Don’t call me Mother,” the Queen’s voice was quiet steel.

“Mom, please, bad enough Gran made me wear that gorgeous monstrosity to the banquet, but you can’t force Sam to pretend to be someone he isn’t.”

“It was my idea!” Sam insisted, emboldened by the Queen’s support. The idea grew on him. What he’d always considered a liability, he could use to help the woman who’d spared his life. Here was his first—and possibly last—chance to do _something_.

“Sam,” Sera said gently, “A few good meals under your belt do not make you a bard.”

“I can do this.” He met her eye with a solid stare.

“But they’ll think you a woman.”

“I’m not going to let idiots stop me,” he said. He wasn’t about to let something as ridiculous as clothes get in the way of his only chance to be a hero. Anger flared.

“If I had balls instead of tits, would you say I couldn’t pull it off?” he demanded. “Would you let ‘a _real_ man’ infiltrate the brothel in a dress?”

Sera’s eyes widened in shock and the Queen pealed with laughter.

“Can’t have it both ways, Sera,” Margie said. “Either you trust him, or you don’t.”

The Princess gave him an appraising look. “But you were so timid when we met.”

 “Sera, honey,” the Queen chuckled, “you intimidate everyone. You knocked him to the ground and surrounded him with guards. Even your Daddy would have been scared in his place.”

“Dad’s not scared of anything,” she muttered absently.

“If only that were true,” the Queen said with a sad smile, but the Princess didn’t seem to hear.

“Do you think he can do it, get us access to this Tevinter agent?” she asked her mother.

“I know he can.”

-

An hour later, Sam found himself in front of a full-length mirror in the Queen’s parlor. He wore a reddish burgundy summer-weight dress with long sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and flowing skirt with lots of folds. The bodice was a stark, straight color against his fair skin; the skirt was full of fleur de lis patterns in various shades of white and red.

“Holy hell,” he said, “I’ve got tits.”

“It’s the bustier,” Enchanter Stella giggled. “Lifts and separates.”

“Knife in the boot; knife in the bodice,” the Queen said.

“No way am I putting a blade anywhere near my sensitive bits,” Sam shuddered. “A boot knife will be sufficient.”

He took the blade Princess Sera offered and slid it in his boot. Enchanter Stella rimmed his eyes with kohl, patted his cheeks and chest with white powder, and plumped his lips with red paint. Margie slicked his short brown hair back with water and scented oils, then stepped back to let him look in the mirror.

 “I’m hot!” Sam cantered his hip and tossed the ladies behind him a saucy smile via the mirror.

The Princess scowled and crossed her arms, but the Queen smiled and the Enchanter did a poor job of hiding a giggle behind her hand.

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” Sam said, poking a finger at his corset-pinched ribs. “It’s just clothes; kind of like wearing a flimsy breastplate underneath.”

“You won’t be able to breathe as deeply,” the Queen warned. “And it won’t stop a blade.”

“And be sure to pick up your skirts when you run, so you don’t trip!” Stella chimed in.

“Enough jokes!” Princess Sera stomped her foot in irritation. “Follow me and I’ll show you.” She tromped down the hall.

“Uh, oh,” Stella giggled again. “Now we’re in for it. After you, Sam.”

They followed the Princess down the hall. She threw open a door and stomped through a room more luxurious than Sam’s wildest imaginings. Everything above the stone floor was warm wood, white linens, and gold, gold, gold.

_Holy shit! This is the Princess’ bedchamber. I am so dead._

She led them through a second set of double doors into a closet bigger than his parents’ farm and threw open the front of a double armoire more ornate than the Royal carriage.

“Holy shit,” he said out loud.

“Yeah,” Sera said. “And it weighs about a hundred pounds.”

“That’s a little more than seven stone,” Stella explained. “And she’s only exaggerating a little.”

However heavy it was, the dress hanging on the dummy in the armoire had to be more beautiful than the gates to the Maker’s Golden City.

It was ivory satin with long, thin sleeves and a bell skirt. Lace graced the high neck and cuffs. The intricate gold embroidery shone like the sun that was Sera.

“The corset is whalebone—good luck trying to sit or breathe—and the lace itches like nettles,” the Princess said. Her tone softened.

“But when Brayden saw me and held my hand,” she shrugged and sent her mum a sweet little smile.

Stella sighed dreamily.

This was way beyond Sam’s comfort zone. He’d best say something polite and retreat.

 “Congratulations on your engagement, Your Highness.” Sam bowed. It was surprisingly hard to do in his corset. “Until we meet again.”

The Princess nodded absently. The Enchanter came over to wrap an arm around her and lean the side of their heads together, like they were watching a romantic sunset instead of a fancy bit of fabric. Stella’s flowing red hair mixed with Sera’s like fire blends with molten gold.

His heart tripped a little, thinking about how he’d been part of the operation that nearly succeeded in dragging the Princess’ best friend off as a hostage.

He showed himself out.

“Sam,” the Queen caught up with him just outside the main door to the Princess’ rooms.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“You don’t have to do this, if you’d rather not.”

“Your faith is not misplaced, Your Majesty. I will return with good news.” Sam smiled and curtsied, playing the part of a lady.

With barely a rustle of skirts, he departed via the servants’ stairs, as swift and silent as the rogue he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a wiki article for [Kohl (cosmetics)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kohl_\(cosmetics\)).


	23. Stone and blade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to catch us a bad guy and save the royal family.

 

The nastiest part of this business was the binding stone, a smoothed Tevinter rock covered with runes and hanging from a gold chain like a pendant. If the Tevinter was a mage, Sam would have to subdue his magic with it.

Four of the stones had survived the botched kidnapping attempt in the fortress courtyard; the others had been obliterated by Enchanter Stella’s Firestorm in the garden. The Queen had the rocks secured in a lead trunk in the furthest corner of the dungeon, behind two locked gates and a rotation of three guards.

When the Princess had run to get the hair oil, and the Enchanter to get the dress and cosmetics, the Queen had whispered the secret in his ear.

“We’ll tell Stella about them when this is over and have her melt them all,” she said. “But this is a weapon we need to win this fight.”

When Sam silently exited the servants’ door to the gardens, Ser Rollie casually leaned on the wall to his right. Arms crossed, his back to Sam, Rollie watched a black-and-white kitchen cat chase birds from the stone birdbath. Hanging from his fingers on one side was the binding stone. Sam slipped it from his grasp on the way past and disappeared through the gardens.

Hidden in the shadows, Sam paused to secure the pendant around the ankle that didn’t hold his knife. It only took a couple steps for him to figure out how to walk so the moderate weight of the stone didn’t show in his gait.

Unlike his first day exploring the fortress, when he’d pretended to know where he was going and nodded at guards, his purposeful stride today was completely true. After almost every sparring session with the Queen, she’d suggested he explore the city. The guards hadn’t stopped him on the way out, or on the way back. Not once.

 _Now I know why._ Queen Margaret had needed him to know the city layout.

He hadn’t told Duncan because he didn’t want him to feel left out. Sam had been exploring the capitol while Duncan was stuck inside with his books and tutors.

On his first outing, Sam had figured out where the Commander’s girlfriend lived, where her dwarf friend sold his wares, and that the Gnawed Noble was too refined for the likes of him. At first he didn’t have any coin. For his second outing, the Queen had handed him some silver pieces and he enjoyed a real pint in a marginally dirty glass at the Hog’s Head.

Each day he’d found something new. The Wonders of Thedas was dusty, creepy, and boring. All the city’s alleys had at least two exits and one dead body.

And the homeless. As hungry as the farm was, he’d never known it possible to live amongst people who didn’t have anywhere to live. From the third day onward, he’d dropped all the Queen’s coins into the hand of a blind woman sitting in front of the Hog’s Head; then she’d stand and hand the coins out to friends who came to whisper in her ear.

He knew where The Pearl was—everyone did—but had never been inside. Now he looked like someone who belonged there.

Instead of the most direct route from the fortress, Sam took the next-quickest option, concealing himself in the bustle of the busiest streets.

He had to decide how to enter: Waltz in the front, or sneak in the back. He’d play the part of The Pearl prostitute for the Tevinter agent, but everyone who lived and worked there would know him a stranger, so maybe entering the front like a patron—The Pearl served _anyone_ , as long as you were old enough, rich enough, and not violent—and then sneaking upstairs would be best.

_Front door it is._

But as he walked past the lane behind the brothel, another opportunity presented itself: a blonde, curvier version of himself, in a blue dress identical to his red, crooked her finger, inviting him up to the back door. He’d never seen her in full cosmetics or skirt, but he’d know her anywhere. He’d seen her fight, though she’d never watched his private training sessions.

 _Hill._ The Steward’s daughter was in the Royal Guard, her shield bash meaner than the King’s. She was a damned good warrior.

She opened the back door for him with a whisper, “Servants’ stairs to the right. He’s in the last room on the top floor. Thinks I’m fat as a nug and dumb as dung. I never made it from the parlor to his room.”

Sam silently passed by and Hill shut herself back outside again.

In less than a minute, he’d climbed the empty servants’ stairs and traversed the vacant hallway. The thin walls and door barely muffled the conversation within.

Had he been a minute later, he’d have missed the most important intel. Another day, and it would have been too late.

“By noon tomorrow, the boy and his father will be dead, and the women yours, I swear.” Sam’s blood ran cold. The voice within was entirely too clear, normal, and average for the horrors it spoke of. “I’m handling it personally.”

“Don’t fail me again,” the second voice was whiney, with an echo like the speaker’s body wasn’t present.

If there were two of them, and Sam went in, he’d have less than two seconds. The element of surprise might not be enough—but it might be.

_Everybody bleeds. You will get cut. Make sure your opponent is the dead one._

“What of the Magister?” the first man asked.

“Clueless, as always. As soon as I’ve your confirmation the Theirin Bastard and his annoying shit of a son are dead, I’ll take care of Dorian myself.”

_Be quick._

Sam knocked.

The Tevinter yanked the door open. He was in his late twenties, trying to look older. Gray stains on the fingertips of his left hand and the hem of his fancy tunic proved the graying at his temples a falsehood. The rest of him was pristine, including his thin, waxed mustache.

His glare was immediately replaced with a lecherous smile. Sam instantly pitied every woman and man this ass had ever fucked, touched, or even looked at.

With no hesitation, Sam schooled his face with the perfect mix of demur and sultry and gave a curtsey that offered the older man a brief glimpse down his bodice.

“I say, are you still there?” the annoyed voice echoed out from a pink crystal nestled in a velvet-lined box that was open on the table. Beside it sat a giant porcelain vase, almost half as big as a mabari, filled with wilting red roses.

The agent grabbed Sam’s wrist with a sweaty, sticky hand and dragged him into the room, slamming the door.

“You’ll have my final report tomorrow by noon,” the agent turned his back on Sam to close and lock the box.

 _Rule two: kill quickly._ Or, in this case, incapacitate.

As soon as the older man had released his wrist, Sam was reaching for the vase. As the Tevinter locked the box, Sam slammed the vase—wilting roses, water, and all—sideways over his head, knocking him to the floor on his face, unconscious in a puddle of murky water and thorns.

Sam slipped the binding stone from around his own ankle and secured it around the agent’s neck, doubling the chain so it fit tight like a choker. Then he hog-tied him with the gold tassels from the bed curtains and found three hidden blades on the prisoner: boot, belt, and sleeve. He tossed the weapons into the far corner where the mage’s staff was leaning against the wall.

The staff’s length was beautifully polished wood, but the head was an actual head: a bleached skull that glowed green from the eyes and gave eerie whispers that made Sam shiver.

Armored boots pounded up the stairs. Sam threw the door open and rolled into the hall, pulling his boot knife and putting his back to the wall. Unafraid, his heart pounded with excitement.

_I’m faster than any of you._

Much as he was happy to fight, the sensible part of him was pleased when Royal Guard Captain Jane came into view with an entire squad at her back. He relaxed his stance.

“Prisoner’s ready for you, Guard Captain,” he said.

“Sam! I didn’t know it would be you in the red dress. And here I thought I knew all of the Queen’s secrets. When I saw the go-ahead beacon on the battlements, I almost didn’t believe it.”

“I told you, Guard Captain, we needed a rogue,” Guard Hill stepped out of the next room, her eyes still rimmed with kohl and short blonde hair slicked back like Sam’s. She’d exchanged the blue dress for the breeches and uniform of the Royal Guard, with a shield on her back and sword at her side.

“You did,” Guard Captain Jane nodded. “Let’s get this scum back to the fortress for questioning.”

-

Sam marched through the open portcullis at the head of the group, alongside the Guard Captain. Now awake with his hands tied in front, still wearing the binding stone and pouting like a child, the prisoner sat on the floor in the middle of a horse-drawn cart while six guards sat on benches around him and another dozen walked with them. No one joked, talked, or took their eyes off the Tevinter.

The Theirin family stood at the top of the keep’s steps, watching the procession. The King, Queen, and Princess looked grim, but young Duncan hopped from foot to foot with excitement.

The guards came to a halt in the middle of the courtyard and dragged the prisoner from the cart, off toward the side entrance to the dungeons.

Sam and the Guard Captain stood so close to the prisoner, Sam could practically smell the Tevinter’s anger. The sooner Alistair executed this spy, the better.

“Duncan!” the Queen called out in alarm, grabbing for her son as he evaded her grasp.

“I want to see!” the Prince made a beeline straight for the cart, outsprinting both his parents and his sister.

It all happened in less than a blink.

The prisoner elbowed loose one of his guards, grabbed the guard’s dagger between his bound hands, and lunged for Duncan, who was now barely a stride off. “For glory!”

Sam stepped in front of him, twisting the mage’s hands to shove the blade back and up under the Tevinter’s ribs. They both grunted and the prisoner’s hands loosened just enough for Sam to yank the blade free and plunge it forward into the man’s throat just above the stone tied there, with a sideways punch of his right fist, their lips close enough to kiss.

The guards jumped back as the body fell back on the ground, empty eyes staring at the pristine blue of the summer sky, blood from the two wounds quickly soaking into the courtyard dirt.

_Nobody touches my brothers._

“Sam, Sam! Are you okay?” Duncan’s arms were tight around his corseted waist, young eyes wide with surprise, but no fear. The brilliant, foolish kid wasn’t afraid of anything.

Sam bent as much as he could to hug him back.

“Sassy as sarsaparilla, Your Highness. Now, go to your mum; she’s worried.”

The King, Queen, and Princess stood just a few yards off. When Duncan ran back to them, the Queen fell to her knees, sobbing as she held him.

“I’m fine, Mom. Promise. Just stupid.”

“Don’t say that!” the Princess cuffed him in the side of the head and squatted down to wrap her arms around him, too. “You’re _not_ stupid.”

The King squeezed his son’s shoulder, kissed the top of his wife and daughter’s heads, and made his way over to Sam. The guards took a few steps back to give them a little privacy for a quiet talk.

“Thank you, Sam.”

“You’re welcome.”

The King chuckled at the informality. “If only we all spoke as plainly as you do.”

“The Altus?” Sam asked.

“In Dorian’s custody—as soon as he’d severed that sending crystal connection. He’d tapped us into it a few weeks ago. And by ‘us,’ I mean my wife. They’re pretty close, and kind enough to let me in on some of their magical conversations. Dorian tolerates me rather well, ‘ _for a Southerner_.’

“We had a tense few moments there, after we heard him let someone in the room. It was several minutes before someone lit the all-clear beacons over The Pearl and the Gnawed Noble to let us know you were successful.

“You’re a friend of Ferelden, Ser Sam. The bards may not sing of you, but I will never forget.”

The King offered his hand and Sam shook it.

Then the Prince led his parents back into the keep, chattering on happily about his latest adventure.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered what kind of trouble Duncan would be into if not guarded day and night in the fortress. It would be fun to watch him enter his teen years, see what kind of mischief a bookish royal son could devise, but the season would soon change, and the part of Sam that was still a farmer knew it was time to move on.

Had his brothers felt like this before leaving home? Probably. He was the only one who had left out of desperation and run away with strangers. Thank the Maker he’d had a second chance when he’d come to Denerim.

“Sam,” the Princess approached, chin held high. “You did well. When my engagement is announced, I will also choose my personal guards. You would be welcome.”

“I would be honored, Your Highness,” Sam bowed, “but I already plan to follow in my brother’s footsteps.”

The Princess’ confused frown appeared as an adorable, tiny little line in the middle of her forehead. “Brother?”

“My eldest brother works in the Inquisition, helping refugees. The rest of us scattered to the wind.”

“You have other siblings?” Her soft pink lips made a surprised little oh.

Maker, she was beautiful. But she was Duncan’s sister. Royalty. Heir to the throne. She loved the Arl’s son, was betrothed to him.

“I have six older brothers.”

She blinked. “Is that—is that why you . . . you’re . . .”

It amused him to no end that the Prince and Princess were so confused and concerned about his body parts. The King and Queen didn’t care one way or the other. He barely thought about his own bits at all.

“No,” he gave her a roguish grin and she blushed prettily.

“Sorry,” she looked at the ground and kicked a pebble with her booted toe. “I could introduce you to Commander Cullen.”

“Thank you, Your Highness. The Queen has already introduced us.”

She scowled, crossed her arms, and kicked another pebble. “Why am I the last to know anything around here? How am I supposed to run a kingdom when I don’t know what’s going on?”

“Hey, Sera,” he said gently, and, propriety be damned, lifted her chin with his finger. Her eyes went wide and she shivered, making him almost forget what he was going to say.

“You’re brilliant. You’re going to be the best Queen any nation in Thedas has ever seen.”

She laughed bashfully and pulled back, waving her hand regally toward his dress. “Oh, Sam, go change. I can’t take you seriously when you’re wearing that ridiculous thing.”

“It’s just clothes, Your Highness,” he returned to his usual way of speaking.

“Yeah, well . . .” she cleared her throat and headed back to the keep.

Once all the Theirins were safely inside, guards bustled about, wrapping the Tevinter’s body in linens for disposal, and cleaning up the courtyard.

Whatever he’d told the Princess, he was itching to change into his more comfortable clothes and let his lungs fully expand again. Sam headed toward the keep himself, stopping when the Guard Captain’s second spoke to him.

“Well done,” Benny leaned a shoulder in the doorway of the stable, a teasing bit of petulance in his comment. “You know, _I_ wanted to wear the red dress, but the Queen didn’t think the Vint would fall for it.”

Sam grinned, “Aw, Ben, you know if I’d failed, she’d have sent you in through the window to slit his throat.”

Benny straightened, his chest puffing up with pride. “You know, I think you’re right.

“Commander’s gone for the night, but you should be able to catch him in the morning, should you be so inclined.”

“Thanks, Benny.”

The guard nodded, “Any time, man.”

Benny returned to the barracks and Sam returned to his guest room. Tomorrow he’d join the Inquisition, even if it meant going around the Commander and straight to Seeker Pentaghast.


	24. Never say goodbye

She’d never felt such ecstasy. Blood pounded in her ears and her vision went glassy. He was inside her and she clenched hard around him.

He plunged his hips again and again. She met his every thrust, curved up off the mattress to bury her face in his neck, arms around him like a vice.

“More! Cullen! More!” She threw her head back and screamed his name again as orgasm tore through her. Her shudders sent him tumbling after her.

They fell together into a breathless heap.

“Was that your first word?” he chortled into her neck.

“What?”

“‘ _More_ ,’ when you were a baby, was that your first word?” He propped himself up to look into her smiling eyes.

“It was ‘Da.’”

His laughter drifted away and he tenderly brushed a finger from her temple down her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be. You’re not him.”

Their first night together, she hadn’t told Cullen much beyond “my father was a Templar who hid my birth.” The rest was short and disappointing. Not something she wanted to share in the afterglow of lovemaking.

Da had always called her “my girl.” She struggled to remember if he’d even known her name. When he first arrived each visit, he’d asked her “How is my girl?” Whenever she said or did something that even an illiterate anyone with half a brain could figure out, he'd said, “That’s my girl.”

As a child she’d found it disappointing. As an adult, horrifying.

He’d also called Mum “my girl.” The last time they’d seen him, he’d told Mum, “You do really well with her,” like her mother was some clever street mutt who’d refrained from biting a strange puppy. “You’ll be okay while I’m away?”

Mum had nodded and let him kiss her. “That’s my girl.”

Always an uncomfortable one, the memory now became grotesque. Ev realized Mum hadn’t been in love anymore. Perhaps she’d never felt that kind of love at all.

Cullen’s lips twitched poignantly. “I mean I’m sorry for your loss.”

She raised her head from the bed to press a kiss to his lips and lay flat again. “Thank you.

“After Mum died, Gran raised me, just as she raised others, raises Georgie, though I don’t have their gift for song and profanity.”

He chuckled and nuzzled his face into her neck.

“Want to talk about it?”

She stiffened and he snuggled even closer, rubbing her wrist with his thumb. “You don’t have to if you don’t want. Do you want to hear about my family?” he offered.

She felt a pang of guilt at not having asked him about his family earlier, but he seemed completely at ease and she relaxed into his arms.

“Yes.”

He rolled onto his back and pulled her close with an arm around her shoulders, her front flush against his side so she could rest her head on his chest.

The warm touch and rumble of his chest felt safe, sheltered.

“I was fortunate to know my parents and all my siblings growing up in the Fereldan village of Honnleath,” he began, “though my mother and father did not survive the Blight when they all fled South Reach.”

She lazily traced her fingers up and down his sternum, touched the charm he never took off, even when they made love.

“And this?”

“A gift from my brother, the day I left for Templar training. From the very beginning, I broke the rules.”

She snorted, “You love rules.”

“I want to know the rules. That doesn’t mean I always follow them.”

She poked him in the chest. “You usually do.”

“Yes.” He sighed.

“Anyway, my siblings: My older sister, Mia, bested me at board games, but she was also my greatest supporter when I was eight and wanted to be a Templar.”

“Eight?”

“Yes, though I didn’t join them until thirteen, and didn’t take the vows until eighteen.”

She raised her head to look at him. “But you don’t take Lyrium now.”

He smiled. “I stopped when I left the Order for the Inquisition.”

“That must have been . . .” she searched for a word. “Painful.”

He chuckled. “Yes, and not just physically. It’s one of the few substances for which withdrawal can physically kill you, but the hallucinations are just as dangerous. I’ve kept watch over some souls trying to go without, and helped those who left the order but couldn’t give it up. Logistics were . . . interesting.”

She laid her ear back to his chest and traced his pectorals with a sleepy finger. “You said siblings, plural.”

“Yes, Branson is younger than I, and Rosalie the youngest. Though,” he chuckled, “none of us are that young anymore.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a grown man in his prime,” Ev said drowsily. She wrapped her arm around his midsection.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow she’d tell him she wanted to go with him.

-

He pulled the blankets up over them both and mulled over their conversation.

He loved her: She was talented and kind, quick with wit and action, and she served just as passionately as he did.

That was the problem. Alistair and Margie needed her.

Dozens—perhaps hundreds—of others in Denerim, including dwarves and Templars who needed special care, needed Ev. He couldn’t ask her to abandon her patients and follow him to his post. She would grow to hate him, and he’d hate himself for what he’d done to her.

Again he cried silent tears. The most amazing woman in Thedas, the love of his life, slept peacefully in his arms and he was going to walk away.

With Ev wrapped snug around him, Cullen cried himself to sleep.

-

Something was off when she woke.

She wore his coin.

He kissed her cheek.

“Goodbye,” he whispered.

“Hold on, wait!” she sat up and grabbed his arm. “You’ve never said goodbye before. Are you leaving?” her voice trembled.

“I must.” Resolve shuttered his face. “I’m expected back soon. I’ve been away from my duties for too long.”

He was fully dressed. He had planned to slip out.

Anger rose, steadying her words with heat. “Aren’t you going to ask me what _I_ want? Maybe I want to go with you.”

“You can’t,” he said stoically, “Your patients—”

“Don’t you tell me what I can and cannot do, Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford.” Her voice was firm, but her thumb gently brushed the path of a tear dried on his cheek.

Maker, this was harder for him than her.

Her heart ached more for him than herself.

She softened her tone. “You always assume the worst. With me, you don’t have to.

“I don’t have to give up medicine for us to be together.” She wrapped her left arm around his waist, placed her right hand over his pounding heart. “Could the Inquisition use another healer?”

“Healers are always in short supply,” his expression softened.

“And how many surgeons?”

“We have trouble keeping them.” He brushed her hair back from her temple with a gentle touch. “But, what about your patients here?”

“There are other healers in Denerim. Georgie can study surgery with Maeve, who isn’t a mage.”

“And Alan comes for Alistair,” he said absently, more to himself than her.

She pulled her head back. “How did you know that?”

“Alistair,” he smiled sweetly and brushed her hair back again. “He really can be a good friend. Pity all those years we spent hating each other.”

“It wasn’t hate,” she said. “It was hurt.”

“Ev, my love, do you really want to come with me to join the Inquisition?”

“I love you, Cullen. I want to work with you.”

“I love you, too,” he whispered reverently and placed a tender kiss to her lips. “Marry Me?”

She laughed. “Marry a man who was ready to walk out two minutes ago?”

He grinned, took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed her senseless.

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes, Cullen!” She threw her arms around his neck. “Let’s get married.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We danced so close_  
>  _We danced so slow_  
>  _And I swore, I'd never let you go_  
>  _Together! Forever!_  
>   
>  When he tames his over-developed sense of duty, Cullen’s a romantic. Envision Cullen at prom, slow dancing with Ev (if they were closer in age) to Bon Jovi’s [Never Say Goodbye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifm00JEjSeo). You know, dance like kids do: *her hands around his neck* *his hands at her hips* *shift stiffly from foot to foot with less grace than Commander Shepard*


	25. Epilogue: Whatever we were before

Sam had never been to a wedding before. It was splendid.

A mere fortnight after he’d saved young Prince Duncan, he stood at the lad’s side in the front row of chairs set out in the sun-kissed grasses beside a remote, two-room cottage. The Queen sat at the end of their row.

Publicly, Duncan had invited him as his guest. Secretly, Queen Margaret had insisted he attend as Duncan’s guard.

“My son tends to pick inattentive chaperones,” she’d said, fondly. “He’s young enough to think mothers don’t understand about such things. I’d like him to keep that fanciful bit of childhood a while longer.”

“With my life, Your Majesty,” he’d genuflected, fist over his heart.

“May it not come to that, for we would miss you, Ser Sam.”

Now, within a stone’s throw of simple vegetable gardens, Commander Cullen and Ser Rollie stood on opposite sides of a wooden arbor covered in all the different flowers from the Queen’s gardens: red roses, red and white carnations, and every type of wildflower found in Ferelden.

Between them stood The Nightingale. Her wings must be swift, indeed, to have arrived here from Val Royeaux with such short notice.

She clearly respected Commander Cullen a great deal.

Even without her reputation, Divine Victoria, formerly known as Seneschal Leliana, the spymaster of the Inquisition, was a vision. Only her fair face and hands showed beyond her ridiculously tall priest hat—and why did it spread out in that elongated curve overhead?—and long sleeves, with a hint of red hair barely visible. She wasn’t as tall as the two men at her side, but there was something about her relaxed stance that made Sam certain she could take them both down before they knew she was there.

He felt a slow grin grow on his face as he imagined her wearing nothing but that hat while inviting a lover to bed.

Her assessing eyes passed across the guests to briefly find his. Quick as a dagger, and gone just a fast, she gave him a roguish smile, and kept her glance moving as if nothing had happened.

“What’s so funny, Sam?” Duncan asked.

“It’s a happy day, isn’t it, Your Highness?”

“Yes! I’ve never been to Georgie’s Gran’s before.” He leaned forward to look around Sam, across the aisle.

He’d said “Georgie’s Gran’s,” not “Healer Evelyn’s Gran’s.”

With more subtlety, Sam took a glimpse, too.

At the far end, face turned away and neck flushed pink, sat a tow-headed kid a few years older than Duncan.

“Friend of yours?” Sam whispered discretely in his ear.

Duncan gave a start and shook his head vehemently, turning to look the other way, neck also turning pink. He wouldn’t laugh at the poor boy, but his heart did amused cartwheels in his chest.

Then the cottage door opened and he braced himself for the sight of Princess Sera, heir to the throne, the betrothed of Brayden Guerrin, and maid of honor for today’s two brides. Her gold hair, elegantly piled atop her head with thick tendrils cascading down to caress her neck, shone in the sun. Her simple pink summer dress with enticing sweetheart neckline made her fair skin look rosy.

Her happy smile could melt mountains. Or conquer kingdoms.

Behind her, on the arms of the King, came Enchanter Stella and Healer Evelyn in matching dresses of white lace. The Enchanter’s long red hair was braided up in a circlet while the Healer’s obsidian waves fell loose beyond her shoulders.

The Commander gasped and his bride’s smile grew wider.

Considering the long wait, the ceremony moved surprisingly fast. The Divine led the opening prayer, read a passage from the chant, and guided the couples through their vows. When the brides and grooms kissed, a whoop went up in the congregation. Dance, food, and wine started flowing immediately and went on until long after sunset.

After he got Duncan tucked safely into bed—the boy was sound asleep before he’d blown out the candle—Sam returned to his room, bone-tired.

It had been a splendid wedding. Really.

But he hadn’t slept under the stars in more than a month. Sam yearned to move on.

-

In the courtyard the next afternoon, he got the happiest surprise he’d seen since leaving home.

“Sam?”

“Buck!” Decorum forgotten, Sam rushed past the Commander and into his brother’s arms.

“Oof!” Buck joked. “You’ve put on muscle since I left. I’ll have to watch my back.”

“Ser Sam has been training with the Queen in swordplay,” Cullen said, “but I’ll leave his greatest achievement for the Crown for his own telling.”

Buck sent Sam an inquiring look. “For years, nothing. Then, in a mere nine weeks, you move to Denerim and enter the Queen’s service? We need to go to the pub and see if you can outdrink me now, too.”

“Only if it’s tea.” Though untrue, no other response was appropriate in front of the Commander, even if Buck wasn’t at all embarrassed about his inability to drink more than a half glass of wine.

“Field reports for you, Commander,” Buck pulled a packet of envelopes and scrolls from the saddlebags draped over his arm. “The Empress’ support team returned to Val Royeaux and all survivors of the fire are successfully settled.”

Cullen accepted the packet. “Thank you, Lieutenant, but you could have sent a courier.”

“I volunteered,” Buck grinned. “I like traveling alone in the quiet.”

The Commander nodded absently, eyeing the documents he thumbed in his hands.

“Carry on.”

“Lieutenant?!” Sam asked as soon the Commander was out of earshot.

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Buck laughed. “I’ve been with them for years. What’d you think I’d do, sit idle, _Ser_ Sam?”

“Tell me more about the Orlesian soldiers. And Seeker Pentaghast, and Lady Montilyet. I’ll tell you about learning my letters with the Prince and infiltrating the brothel in a dress to catch a Tevinter assassin.”

Buck laughed again. “I’ll buy the first pint, and we can talk.”

“Buck, you hate ale.”

“A cuppa, then.”

-

Finally, finally, he was riding out. With the Inquisition.

Yesterday, a mere twenty-four hours after Buck’s arrival, a squad of Inquisition soldiers had arrived to escort the Commander and Healer home. The Queen had gifted Healer Evelyn with a sturdy workhorse and cart to transport the essentials from her clinic. Sam had not witnessed her private farewells with her friends and grandmother.

He bid the Theirins farewell at the top of the keep’s steps, accepting an enthusiastic hug from Prince Duncan and bowing low toward the others.

In the Princess’ bright-eyed manner, less haughty than usual, he found neither pity, nor undue appreciation. Of all his adventures’ gifts, her respect was the most cherished.

“When you do what’s best, joy will follow,” Buck said quietly as they approached their horses together. “Such is the nature of love.”

He hadn’t told Buck anything about his feelings, but, like all his brothers, Buck could quickly see and offer comfort wherever it was needed. Sam forced a smile.

“Yes, Da does always know what to say, doesn’t he?”

“Ser Sam!” Georgeanne ran up from the kitchens’ side door and threw herself into his arms, earning a chorus of hoots from the Inquisition soldiers. In her kiss, exuberance more than made up for her inexperience, and Sam was careful not to put his hands anywhere improper.

“For luck!” she said when she broke away breathlessly.

“I shall be the luckiest man on the road, then, Miss Georgeanne,” he bowed properly and kissed her hand.

With a titter, she ran back to her mum, who was smiling.

Already mounted, Buck turned his head to hide a snorting laugh with his fist, pretending to cough.

“So, dear brother, how many maidens did you kiss whilst endearing yourself to the royal family?”

Sam laughed, heart light as he sprung up into the saddle. “Just the one. Just that once. I complimented her apple pie.”

With one last cheerful wave to Duncan, Sam rode out with his eldest brother to begin his life in the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How about another romance? In 9:72 Dragon, King Alistair remains hearty at age 62 alongside his vibrant wife, Queen Margaret. The working title is “Courage, My Heart,” and it follows twenty-year-old Prince Duncan’s search for his paternal grandmother. *cough, cough* How do well do you think that will go? I promise another happily ever after. Other key players include Enchanter Alan, Surgeon Georgie, and Janelle, who had only planned to deliver some arcane books. Honest.
> 
> I’ve got some AU short stories and a one-shot about Anora in the works, too. In the meantime, you can check out [all my stories](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DAfan7711/works) and subscribe.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Check out my [Pinterest board](https://www.pinterest.com/dafan7711/heal-my-heart/) for this story.


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